by Susan Michele Coronel resembling a younger Matt McConaughey or a biker in Spandex shorts. It seemed so obvious, like blinking lights in the red light district or dandelion seeds floating in a spring field. The way jellyfish haunt the open seas. I told myself I didn't need it, that I wouldn't be swayed by its charms. Yet there I was, smitten by its spangled, blustery costumes, and it adhered to me like an umbilical cord that would not sever. I resisted, wanted to extricate it the way a dentist excavates a root, not the actual tooth, shining and glittery, compelling me to say yes when I knew better. Returning to analyze me like a panel of judges on American Idol, it had no advantage, only to make me feel blessed, to say yes to a second date.
Susan Michele Coronel lives in New York City. Her poems have appeared in Gyroscope Review, Prometheus Dreaming, Redivider, and One Art. She has received two Pushcart nominations. One of her poems was runner-up for the Beacon Street Poetry Prize and another was finalist in the Millennium Writing Awards. Her first full-length poetry manuscript was a finalist for Harbor Editions’ 2021 Laureate Prize.