On Hips and Angelfish

by Rebecca Anne Renner

I hate my hips,
the mere joints of them.

I want to be a mermaid
from the waist down,
though

they say,

from the waist up would be better:

to have all
the pleasure and none

of the pain.
To just think
about sex

and food,
and swimming

and not being eaten.

If women
are mermaids,

then men are not
sailors, but

these: with brains of fish
so

easily lured
to earrings and legs

so (spread) open
to the unknown.

Wet April Fades Through Fleece

by Rebecca Anne Renner

April
mops the yellow
scent of rejection
off its thighs.
It
clings to daybreak
like a perfume
sodden whore,
fat, docile,
where
a tigers claws
and serpent's
tongue once grew,
soft
with years of lying
down in rutted soil
too paltry for a summons
or a call to tea,
a simpering
orchard is born
and withers.