E.P. Robles | Poetry

Is your husband distant—fleeting—gone?

Invite his mother to the night, In your room, beside the dawn— Then in the closet, slouched and slight,

Project your end—a salamander’s grace— Into the mirror where shadows trace.

Does he elude your tender care? The celestial guide needs thinning fare— Drop essence in his broth so sweet,

When beside you, content, he greets.

With gentleness, but cunning too, Stuff the goose with octopus hues, Mandrake’s curl and serpent’s hair,

Tease his leanings—silk badger’s snare. Sprinkle moth with blood and ash, Smile, my dear, as life does crash—

For though he fights, in your embrace, It’s you he’ll see—your ghostly face.

I know not hell—yet flames consume, This form, since birth, in fiery plume— No demon stirs my rage or lust,

No satyr hunts my heart’s dark crust. But words, they turn to crawling lies, And from my lips, the vermin flies—

My tender place, too rain-intense, Like a mollusk, holds no defense, Clings to the phone, and softly weeps—

In spite of self, this carcass creeps— Fantasizing, in twisted dream, Of your old fire—a dying gleam.

:: 08.27.2024 ::