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.

Death is a Lady

Death is a Lady, and she wears fishnets and stilettos
I am the Reaper because I swallow men into my mouth
then spit up the bones and blood with gristle regret
I hold Death in my arms, I seduce him, grab his mind
and cast my nail hooks into his abyss to fish love,
no, not love, just sex and cum and spit on tongues
that castigate and romance in equal measure, heat of
heaving breasts and bucking thighs, we are Death, we
are Life, and rose thorns pierce my gums but at least
I know I am master of he who plucks stars from trees
feasts upon my marrow and my cruel whip, I fly harpy
through the trees, leading Death on, teasing him,
Death is a Monster, and we are beasts, so we shed
any chrysalis of mortality as I take his manhood
in silk hands and fuck us all into oblivion, sin,
rebirth on stained sheets, Death is marriage, we wine.


You are a weed, a thorn, and I hate to love you
green is spring but red burgeoning blood poppies
I will snap your stem and break your neck before
you take root in my heart, a drunk shoot, never
will I bow before any man, never the slave again!
No, I will be the mockingbird laying eggs alone,
my children will be orphans and I a wanderer, fire
will be my husband as I dance by flames, burn your
stamen and leaves, your wooden bones that are rots
on my teeth from overripe kisses, you are itching
ivy on my skin, a rash, and I would rather be alone
than drown in the dew on your petals, Venus Flytrap.

Gift for a Gift

You ask what price I paid to paint Ymir’s brains
across the cosmos? Sacrifice of hangman’s jig to
my own mortality, morality, I lost humanity come
the gallows, all that was left was ergi sorcerer,
wild wanderer, Bolverk Sly-Serpent questing after
Gunnlod’s mead. What Tyr whispered to the Fenris
Wolf as his hand snapped off is the same I say to
you: a gift for a gift, and your offerings summon
my whimsy, flipping the bird at me is a compliment,
you etched and sketched and drew and quartered me –
don’t think to tame the storm, I ride on thuderheads,
I ate up my forefather’s bones and took Jotun into me
all to become strong, because I could, because I was
there, and the opportunity to be more than ancestral
clash of ice and fire called to me like Frigga’s breast,
Wanderer, Warrior, Wounded King, I am all at once, a
conundrum of clashing seasons, but in truth I am always
winter, and your spine will dance in ice in my hands
so keep playing, sweet child: seek my riddled answers
I cannot promise you a throne but wisdom, glory, pain.

Rumination on the Planet Mars

Your hair is the color of fire, red earth, warmth
I go swimming in your eyes and float in salt tears
buoyant and ballistic as a missile for your heart –
Can’t you see I’m deadly, not at ease in your arms?
Do you know the deserts I would walk to find you?
How many poets I would kill to have enough verses
to capture your somber beauty, your emerald irises?
A song in Hebrew plucked on autumnal acoustics, old
hickory guitar in your hand polished to reflect All.
You sing to me and we dance and circle like planets
I Venus, you Mars, and you are the solar eclipse to
my moon, I’m scorching hot, burning up, you ruddy
clay and dust and traces of mineral water unquenched
no wonder when we kiss I taste ash and stale nests
for I burnt down the cradle you made and flew away
you carry my childhood in your heart, but I abandon
all semblance of dependence, wingless fledgling, my
flight is just falling, only a crash of blood, and
you were never good at letting go, so we hold on…
And on, and on.

Pale as the Moon

You held my hand with moon-pale fractals of fingers
we walked through trees like sages, to elf grottoes
sat down with ankles in springs and uprooted stars
I saw the universe in your eyes, death resplendent
galaxies of want painted in dreamdust on your sclera
and your lips were cold ice but your skin was snowy
drifts, windblown to reveal bone, and you stripped of
all semblance of humanity down to ribs and phalanges
we tossed temptation apples to feast, Death and Girl
and your marrow was sweet on my tongue, black cloak
a womb for transformation, kissing Death is winter,
befriending Death – loving it – makes you wonder how
all passages lead to title pages, and The End is only
a new beginning in a lily grove, spring in December
and in your eye hollows bees nest, waiting for dawn.


The yeoman’s wife knew her love belonged to the soil
the huntsman’s handmaid saw his heart in the stags
the falconer’s mistress charted his dreams on a gyre
and women know our men are not ours, but the road’s.