Poets of Apotheosis

by on December 14, 2021 :: 0 comments

Ten men for every woman
and she turns heads
fishhooks their attention
with her high fashion, her gee-whiz
Americanisms, her palpitating desires
technically virtuoso, apropos
verse and she’s intense, whirling
planetary. None of them
man enough to share
what they won’t let her do.

Radiant, blood whet, she seethes
with impatience and lusts
for an equal without restraint
the red sun rising and closing
like the eye of some foreign god
a willing disciple in search
of a master, the poet
savage who so easily captures
the terrible beauty of death.

He’s an expert at the Ouija board
astrology, drinking cheap beer
he lures her on forays
in forests of the occult
darkness seducing them both
at one with the drive to violence
clutching, swollen after
he felt her raw bite
the animal blood running
down one chiseled cheekbone
bitten by her power, and
afraid of it he’s from the poor
north, wild and nature bound
living in squalor, practitioner
of the holy discipline she shares
his belief in the potency
the magical power of verse.

Intoxicated, she festers
joining his rebel poet clan
she finds what is missing—
the more she burns
the more she consumes
herself—
and him.

editors note:

An imperfect pairing to produce perfect verse. – mh clay

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