Ngombi - Metropolitan Museum of Art - Photo by Margaret Bednar
Frail in this fall through world -
so merely mortal,
so innocently ignorant -
your evil is endless
and your better angels sleep.
Even the stones weep.
All of the mother's tongues have forked.
Their legs have spread; their eyes
are rolled back in painted gourd heads
Unheld, you hold a virgin instead -
stroke her neck, ride
her belly on your thighs.
Let the thin string question high,
and the God string grumble low.
Silly Sister of your creator,
it's you who plucks them both.
A rough draft for Margaret's very cool prompt at Real Toads.
Note: I have some new poems in the fall issue of MockingHeart Review. Check them out here; I'd love to know what you think!