The Enchantress

The hot metal sparks as the pink light falls to the floor,
And I stand in the dark, the armored, gleaming gargoyle
I never could be before.

The orange lamplight is snuffed, its citrus dulled
to ash sweet on my tongue, thick night, dark oil,
grotesque or beautiful.

Grotesque or beautiful, it grumbles none the more.
It won’t say why I creep, so gently prowl,
To the knob of closet door.

On this last night before I go, my soles deep in the floor,
allured by song or growth or growl,
my hand is on that door.

Will it fling needles hard and fast and bleed with yellow and green,
aim horns for the metal painted down
my face, my chest, my wings?

Will its fur shake with raw attack, or—be warm and cool—
With egret feathers—phoenix down—
Spirals gold and blue—?

Chances are my armor beams beneath the creature’s cry.
I’ll leave it with this wilting rose
and wait for it to die.