Pickled Parrot, Spring Hill
The Devil licks its fingers clean from the breaking of hearts.
Fingers wiped on the walls of a karaoke bar.
Like blood, love stains—
Fumes in a room, curdles spit in the palm of a hand.
Fingers splayed wide; the bar top is wet, but not from what you think.
She looked me up and down, a sketch of despair.
Watching the bar collapse, I asked her over.
Her hair was black like a nest of shadows all tangled together.
Her eyes bright and green; lips red, I picked up my beer by the neck and finished it.
I asked her eyes a question and she answered.
I liked her face; it was sweet, frankly sexual.
Her hand moved from her lap to mine.
I twisted on the bar stool like the gore in my legs consisted of serpents instead of blood.
She noticed my discomfort but (bless her) didn’t let on.
I stared into her emerald eyes—hot as a dying star.
We left together.
The Devil sang “Total Eclipse of the Heart” in the background.
The floor was slippery, but not from what you think.