You painted yourself Bukowski Blue, Sweet Man
(the Red Devil himself couldn’t sit straight upon your shoulder)
when you chose your own cool, coarse coal
over the stone-born gold of me. Can we agree
that’s just hilarious? (In a stomach pumping
kind of way.)
Everything simple is made hard again:
The children are horned, the children are scorned.
Buttercream tastes of ashes, taffeta turns so tough.
Sure, fine. Now I actually see
the whispers. Honey Bee, how could I possibly
know you’d package poison for Royal Air Express?
Oh, Truest Heart, a horde of Red Devils
could not sit upon your shoulder. Since, of course,
I ought to have seen you all assembled:
tuxedo bound, altar ready,
from my end of the aisle.
Still, I walked the Dirge March
like a challenge: Don’t think
twice. It’ll be all right.
This poem first appeared in The F&M Alumni Arts Review.
Sophie Afdhal writes across genres with a focus on fiction, poetry, and personal essays. She was born and raised in Boston, MA where she currently resides and writes, in the company of at least one pug. She holds a master's in creative writing from the University of Oxford.
The Ekphrastic Review
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