Villains always get the coolest outfits:
under her spotted and translucent mantle,
Body like a tilted decanter,
pouring poison into local flora, apparently,
and multiplying like plague.
I cannot squish her.
Something here invites me to consider
whether I would not trade all these flowers
for a field of beating wings,
whether I would not rather see a moment
of real evil.
Crystal caves are the earth’s screams of pain.
Of course she writes her confessional poetry
in the language of geometry.
Is it lucidity to strap on a headlamp
and read your mother’s diary?
Someone with her head in the oven
must feel a final lucent moment.
— Mark Everett Wittmer is a young poet currently living in Baltimore.