Angel Zapata

The May Selected Poet is Angel Zapata

Please feel free to email Angel at: zapata594@live.com



There comes a wicked whisper at the ear
that neither speaks, nor feels as if it’s near.
From miles away, a numbing quiet grows
like listening for wings of looming crows.

Blue sky will clear the choke before it sings.
The bee will murmur “perish” as it stings.
Trees bleed and autumn leaves count slaughtered sheep.
The Old Ones babble madness while they sleep.

The Minotaur stands ready in the maze.
On tunnel walls he’s carving out the days.
Men trapped inside, he easily destroys
yet does so without ever making noise.

The lowly fly becomes a willing slave
to spiders hanging limply over graves.
He foolishly believes the homespun thread:
the voice you hear is only in your head.

A mirror hides within the human brain.
Its vague reflection utters you’re insane.
Slumbering gods who dwell in graying folds
invoke the ghost—now do as you are told!


The manse was raised in nineteen thirty-four
by Fletcher Wallace Lee, a former priest.
Painted glass fixed within Art Deco doors
reveal phantasmagorias of beasts.
Etched on fireplace stone and staircase posts
are pagan invocations to old gods.
Atop the terraced roof, the gathered ghosts
besiege the ornate spire’s lightning rod.
For eighty years, the house has stood, a thorn
to prick the sky. And all who live inside
its walls never leave alive—from stillborn
births to mishaps and thirteen suicides.
Despite evident ills beyond the veil,
the auction block gavel will close the sale.


Faithless one,
endless dance begins
as infants in their cribs
let untouched, undone,
will never know
they suffocate in swaddling clothes.

Gray ashes
cling to organ pipes—
through thick theater doors
you enter
one last time,
transposing voice for pantomime.

Curtain call,
the audience applauds
a shy puppet
scarred with your face—
no closer to the answer,
fearing death, but not the dancer.

You twirl
on stage above the flames,
toss charcoal kisses.
From heart to hands
dwell melted strings.
Decay, an unseen choir sings.

Candles blaze,
the scorched curtain falls.
Somewhere veiled in darkness
—behind an iron door—
a cradle rocks;
you twist the knob and find it locked.

Ageless child,
the wooden floor creaks
beneath dead footsteps,
yet you must learn to dance,
slowly turning,
smokeless though your feet are burning.

Angel Zapata calls Augusta, Georgia his home. Born and raised in New York City, his award-winning fiction and poetry is a conglomeration of street smarts and Southern charm. Don’t leave him alone in a room with Gummi Bears. Please don’t. He’s authored two poetry chapbooks, a crime thriller, and a horror short story collection.