Satan is a bird at the end of a twig
I picked up from a peach-colored lane just last year.
A dry morn, though the day was April or May
like he knew he would be fanning cherry flames soon.
The men are always in power: God and Satan.
I made a pact that I would be both –
goddess and femme fatale, bite the ears of egg shells.
He broke from one a ghost and had a beautiful voice –
high in the tide of treetops waving goodnight,
opened like an abscess on pores
and gave the terrain a kick. I mothered him,
over time Satan became my library pianist, my kid.
Girls taught him everything there is about
astronomy, little did we know he was a citizen of the
moon and pushed everyone else off the side
or into a yellowing crater. He looked so small.
No one believed his voice could be
so thunderous even when he created storms himself –
including the one that drew me to his feather
glued to moss and maggots in an attractive place,
froze and lone, Satan’s existence is my fate.
Feb 19, 2013
Feb 19, 2013 at 4:54 PM UTC
Satan is a bird at the end of a twig
I picked up from a peach-colored lane just last year.
A dry morn, though the day was April or May
like he knew he would be fanning cherry flames soon.
The men are always in power: God and Satan.
I made a pact that I would be both –
goddess and femme fatale, bite the ears of egg shells.
He broke from one a ghost and had a beautiful voice –
high in the tide of treetops waving goodnight,
opened like an abscess on pores
and gave the terrain a kick. I mothered him,
over time Satan became my library pianist, my kid.
Girls taught him everything there is about
astronomy, little did we know he was a citizen of the
moon and pushed everyone else off the side
or into a yellowing crater. He looked so small.
No one believed his voice could be
so thunderous even when he created storms himself –
including the one that drew me to his feather
glued to moss and maggots in an attractive place,
froze and lone, Satan’s existence is my fate.
