by Mordantia Bat


My legs unsteady on the street
(from saké or insomnia or indifference).
I lean against the parking meter
and see this fog for what it is.
Reminders of the dream
whispered to me in telltale cadence
by the one whose talons tore out the
better part of my torso some years ago
and tried to steal my ahhhrt.

I feel that gaping chest-hole there when the wind blows north.
But cannot see it.

Memories are torpid. I accept them
too easily.
From minor unabombers galore.

I run into the restaurant's bathroom
to examine them
under the fluorescent light.

Ex-boyfriends have no need to read
my recent writings because they are done
with who I am and was and
want to talk about themselves instead.

"You're arousing me."
"Oh, well."

Ex-lovers, though, read it closely,
in search of allusions they think might be about them.

All right. I'll comply. I always do.
Here it is then.
This poem contains an allusion to you.

All of you.

My threshold has become the entrance to the Oracle.

You show up again. This time to tell me I'm wise.
You don't bring back whatever it was
you stole from me when you left.

And I lost whatever it was I stole from you.

It's an impasse. I'm wise. You're in love. And want me
to tell you your generalities so you can figure out how
to make the person you're in love with make the first move.

My oracular utterances can't fix you.
or answer your questions about love.

As if I know.

Why does everyone think I know about love?

Is it the sulphur gas? My mutant tapetum?

They mistake the acrid pall for sagacity.

And never notice the hunger in my eyes.




To learn more about Mordantia Bat, see the editors' page.