He is sometimes a white-horsed man with sword (“Truth”)
and palm fronds stuck between his toes. I prefer him without
armor because he fits better on a postcard.
Hello, Hell, you are defeated by three things/being/essences
who swirl around at prayer time and wait for me to chant
mercy at my throat. Candle smoke tastes sweeter than brimstone.
Hello, Hell, I said and now I wonder if I am addressing
a hell of his making or of my own and I wait for an answer
but he is busy fighting demons (mine) at the door.
Put your sword down, I should insist, but instead
I forget where I was going and am trailing footsteps
with something part guilt, and intrigue, and death.
He is rarely a white-horsed man and is mostly truth (“Sword”):
a donkey between his knees and incense on his breath.
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