portion of the artwork for Michael Meyerhofer's poetry

Satan Writes Home to His Mother
Michael Meyerhofer

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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FRiGG: A Magazine of Fiction and Poetry | Issue 58 | Fall/Winter 2021