My golden fur is impervious to your attacks…
I’ll look serene and pristine as you vomit
your insecurities onto me in a court of law
when you take me for everything I’m worth.
My father was a typhoon who came of age
during war, smoking charcoal, delivering
heat in the wintertime with a wink and
a grin women half his age find seductive.
My mother was a nymph with glancing
eyes and a serpent’s baby rattle who birthed
me in the mountains where I spent my youth
blindly echoing sermons among crags and cliffs.
I lie somewhere between life and death, a
question mark posed to you in the form of
a sickle when you met me in the graveyard
where I told you I lost my virginity at your age.
To every culture, I am the lion, violent star
of Bacchus, seated on my throne, feasting
on your flesh to celebrate the end of summer
where you and I ride wild in the hurricane winds.
For more of Israfel Sivad’s poems, please go to: amazon.com/author/israfel-sivad