So what was I supposed to do? Those flames
lightning through lion’s fangs, scorching my cheeks,
searing what little hair remained, my frame
seeming to melt in your heaving. For weeks
I’ve lain here, blisters popping like lava’s
thick bubbles beneath flaked epidermis.
Nurses laugh, joke how they think my clava’s
melted, cry that’s why I praise your hot kiss.
I thought with that Capra body, you’d let
me milk your teats. Seems I misread your myth.
Then, lord, your serpent’s tail. I won’t forget
the way it flailed, slimy fury the width
of a blue baleen. You’ve assured our fate.
I’d call this our first and final blind date.
Roger Armbrust
February 1, 2008
