Gargoyle

A hunter's sickness
at winter's close—
that's my gripe,
forced to watch
the spring of life
and bite my urge
to blow it up
and gulp instead
this feeble dream—
the mauve wet gut
of a unicorn-dove;
on my rash chin,
the barbarian wind
of a blood-odored
mother wiping her
bottom with snow.
The road to fame
is narrow. The road
to infamy is wide
and lined with beef:
the bulk of them,
the swing of them,
the horns of them.
They're licking off
my face, I laugh,
forgiving me for
growing slack. I'm
mean again, this
rheum of drool
pooling through
the marble eaves,
like autumn's sign
to leave my seat
and prowl the dens
of lower things,
catch the duck
and lop her head
and drink the cup
of bleeding neck—
Oh lord how hard
to gargle joys
I cannot keep.

Copyright © 2007 Larissa Szporluk All rights reserved
from The Eleventh Muse
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission