Bugbear

That one with its hundred legs
had swum an ocean,
had flown (Kill it) like a poisoned arrow
lodging in a stack of papers on the floor
(Kill it Kill it)
& my fist came down until
the scrabbling stopped.

I lay back on the bedroll & let
my lover dig for the body—
Exactly the same as
the ones back home, she crowed
as if she’d dreamed it into being.
I have no clear recollection of the thing
except it was huge & brown
& left a pool of ichor on the page,
a stain that dried in the shape
of a Rorschach blot

& bored as we were this became
our new quarry:
it’s a dark flower (how decadent)
an empty mandorla (how recherché)
a tortoise shell tea leaves
a keyhole a geode
& anything with teeth
or a broken wing.

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