Nightmare Sonnet #13
Night presses breasts and thighs against the glass
of kitchen window, sliding door. The beer
I’m drinking conjures succubi that pass
me potions frothing gothic visions dear
to my enshackled witch within. They close
my loop this way: I eat my serpent tail.
The cello music on the playlist flows
and moans like mammal suffering, the wail
of forest masses, banshees giving birth,
six-fingered alchemists whose curses limp,
then sprint. The air this evening smells of earth,
a storm is boiling angels live. The imp
of the perverse has got me by the throat.
My black dog’s horned and angry as a goat.