A violent mothstorm hits the lamppost
like soft rosewood hail, and her rabbit
eyes dart peripheral to measure the dark
gentle phosphenes—helmsmen battling the sea.

Speaking of good versus evil, wouldn’t it be nice
for a boy to forgo flowers and gather
a bouquet of feathers (not plucked), plumage
just found between kneecaps or twigs
while climbing trees, love as play.

She would call them loveydovedoves or
cardinalcupids or falconfools or she would
grow the fuck up and call them wings.*

*Instead the boy would grow belligerent, smear his anger
monarch blue, and watch the vertical black
line of his butterfly’s ballerina body
curl,
into,
a,
comma, love, as, War.

A familiar story of wills and nursery rhymes:
His
Bitch Whore Cunt
Come over here for your weekly punt!
and her
The petty preacher pits peaches
Spits on a prick that reaches and reaches.

When will her bruises look like eyes
to her predator?
When will her taste still
his lashing tongue?

She blinks.
Light expands before it extinguishes.

 

Published in Heavy Feather Review.

Alif. Lām. Mīm.

Eudaimonia