Concave

Let’s be friends

Until we run out of things to say.

 

Counting things to be afraid of on my fingers,

My hand turned into a palm frond full of hornets.

 

Reading between the lines on your compound eyes,

I understood

That this is where we are to make our stand.

 

This is where we’ll hold them,

‘Them’ being the shadows at the back of the mirror,

Or whatever you like. That’s not the point.

 

The point was rapier-sharp,

Poking holes in the gossamer of my wing.

When I fall, it will not leave a crater.

There’s the razor on my throat.

 

The eyes behind the glass seemed blue,

But they’re quick silver, spinning widdershins

In my left brain.

 

My thought swept through Thermopylae

Like the ghost of a rat fleeing a sunken ship.

When I asked for it back,

You said ‘Molon Labe,’ and fell on your sword.

 

I found your cooling crater in an empty atrium

With butane in the air

And torches on the walls.

 

It was here I found the shout,

Like a Christmas card hidden in a stack of coupons,

That made the river Styx burst its banks

and flood hell to its fly’s-eye disco ball.

 

With the fires put out, it looked like any other cave.

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