Blissful Flames

There is no Satan without God, a heart in Hell’s embers
still weeps rivers of mourning for a Father long-wandering
Satan used to sing down the moon in Yahweh’s arms, pick
roses for his shophet, though he was El’s shadow, always
following not just a foot behind in Paradisaical gardens,
once Yahweh made him a crown of peacock feathers azure
and green as the envy Satan felt when Adam was created,
and in the small quiet hours when junipers weep blossoms
onto the bloody Styx, Satan remembers, a finger in wound
to remind him of the brilliance of Father’s burning touch.

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