THE KILLER INSTINCT
No one can quite
get over it. It is summer and revenge
lies sweetly in the fields
with her legs open,
with her legs open, her Bo Peep
petticoats in ribbons.
petticoats in ribbons. Et tu,
cutie? Not
far away, alternate worlds
queue up
to be auditioned,
to be auditioned, chatting
despairingly among themselves,
but nobody's called back. Revenge,
our wretched darling, shakes the straw
out of her hair
out of her hair and shines herself
into the reddest apple
on the highest bough.
on the highest bough. Hanging tough
through hundreds of such afternoons,
worried into life
worried into life by lightning’s play
on elemental soup, her stalwart heart
will rise again, slough off
loose brilliance
loose brilliance like a firecracker,
and pack more melodies than Mozart.
Love, revenge, remaindering . . .
is this the end?
is this the end? —The world pumps on,
with all its gently pitiless muzak.
— Rachel Loden
____
from the book, Hotel Imperium (Georgia)