Sunday, February 12, 2017

Aaron Poochigian: The Only Way

When Mister Right has strayed so far you hate him,
pluck a winter leek from peat-rich soil
and eat the stalk before you go to bed.

Spit thrice at sunrise, bathe, then scratch, verbatim,
this lethal summons into kitchen foil:
“Vengeance, go find him, bind him guts, heart, head.

Compel the traitor, no will of his own,
into my bedroom to be mine till death.
Should rival hags assail him, make him fail

to function, make him pleasure me alone—
Roll up the love-charm, pierce it with a nail

and seed it in a field where fireweed
attests to ashes. With the next moonrise
he will arrive, the lover you deserve,

less work than when you knew him, guaranteed
to lock you, goddess, in his zombie eyes,
worship you, service you, and never swerve.

This poem appeared in Don't Talk to Me about Love

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