Satan Writes Home to His Mother
Don’t cry. I prefer it this way.
Really, what good’s a mane of stars
when your wings melt so easily?
But some days the headaches
are too much—the bones of my heart
always pulling themselves in two.
No one believes me when I say
I’d do it again—any day
of the week and twice on Sunday
but I would. Sick of brimstone,
sick of smelling the waste
of dead innocent snakes, that same
gilded alley-oop through
the unforgiving eyes of needles.
Isn’t it better to be damned
than suffer an eternity
of emotional constipation?
Hug my brothers. Make sure
they haven’t forgotten the softness
of a horse’s ear, how water
tries to fill everything it enters.
If you write back, I’ll read it
in what passes down here
for moonlight but is really just
the blister on my forehead
where you kissed me goodbye.
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