Daeva foxes whisper to hell hounds:
They gore my ox with a scimitar,
they cleave my scrot,
my bowels are lowing.
I hear lambs.
The grave gives up my ghost.
I rise from the sod near Quivira, at Elysium.
There are virgins on a thousand hills,
they fill my bag with lotion.
Behind bamboo curtains: Trappings,
stacked metaphors, special effects.
Pubic illusions in cherry blossoms indenture
to what seems. A leggy web-lass displays
her motif; splayed in pleasure quarters, veiled
beneath a soupçon of pollen. A mime. A single
dancer. Appendages so lithe as to assuage
the trepidations of a more tenuous inquisitor.
Supple bindings heighten. A tiger swallowtail
crosses the eyes of a panther.
Her suitor whirls, silken. Pulsing, nonplused.
Tailored to her inducement without antidote.
A spun chrysalis stitched to a lotus thorn—
still courting hopes of dying softly.
Pushcart Prize nominee Kevin Heaton writes in South Carolina. His work has appeared in a number of publications including: Raleigh Review, Mason’s Road, Foundling Review, The Honey Land Review, and elimae. His fourth chapbook of poetry, Chronicles, has just been released by Finishing Line Press. He is a 2011 Best of the Net nominee.