Next time you reach for the handle,
there will already be blood
That is the law, now
The next stranger you meet
will already know your name
This is how we balance the equation
Whose horns will you find
sprouting like poppies from the earth?
Yours, of course
Because you survive your past
in the archive, bearded brother,
Or you are survived —
How many limbs can
grow back, in this
Sordid place of ill fraternity?
Resurrect the phrase that will
strike down the bookkeeper,
And despair! He carries the syllabari
The handle is so slick,
it no longer opens —
Four horns, gray beard, a thousand tasks
To fulfill —
This is the law, now. This is the law.
Jesse Miksic is a graphic designer and writer living in the suburbs of Philadelphia. He spends his life writing poetry, waiting patiently for nightfall, and having adventures with his wonderful wife and two children. Recent placements include Green Ink Poetry, Pink Plastic House, Moist Poetry, and Roi Fainéant Literary Press. His work and musings can be found at @miksimum on Twitter and Instagram, or www.miksimum.com.