Tribute
by Raven Kaldera
(This is the story we tell, the joke
That I laugh at, again and again.)
She walks into the building,
A black splotch against the walls
Candy-pink as spread labia, gold as glitter,
Footsteps smoking in the soft shag carpet,
One foot dragging. The tasteful flowers wilt
To limpness as she passes. The secretary,
With perfect hair and eyes, shudders
As Death stalks in, and no one stalks like Her.
A frightened snatch at the phone - "She's here!"
And the sigh on the other end. Send Her up.
The love goddess behind the desk is frazzled
As love goddesses go, her perfect hair
And eyes are tired as she surveys the file
Spread out on the desk, the skull seal on the papers,
The great black letters - EXPEDITE -
And Hela sitting unmoving, patient,
A black hole wrapped in shrouding.
One crumpled sheet in that file
Is mine, my handwriting large and childish
Like a letter to Santa. Send me someone
Who will love me forever, and then some.
The rest is hers, line after line, page
After itemized page, stamped with skulls,
Reeking of rot.
(This is the story we tell, the joke
That I laugh at, again and again.)
Send my boy someone to love him,
Since he seems to need that so much.
Send him two of them, as he is greedy,
As different from each other as night
And day, yet each perfect. You can do perfect.
That's what you're good at, you hussies
With your hair and eyes, your glitter.
Or at least as perfect as is good for him,
Which is exactly this much. Make them love him
Far more than he deserves, in spite
Of all his cruelty, his selfishness, his
Obsessive hobbies, but not so much
That they cannot challenge him.
Send my boy someone to love him,
To keep him body and soul until
He is worn out from my work. For he
Is a stubborn whelp, and will not see
Any love I give him as worth the cost.
So if he must have human flesh and flaws
Make them the best, and I will pay
That he might be warmed at night between
Two flames, the ungrateful wretch.
Send my boy someone to love him,
And perhaps he will feel my love
Through theirs. But likely not.
The love goddess sighs again, and taps the page-
This is going to cost you.
If Death could snort, it would be the sound
Of fractured bones grinding together, the creak
As foundations give way, the rumble of the
Earthquake under the overpass.
I'll take it out of his hide, She says.
(This is the story we tell, the joke
that I laugh at, again and again,
because I am a stubborn whelp,
too much of an ungrateful wretch
to weep in gratitude.)
