Your anger is a mangy thing
Perched upon a gnarled branch. It is
A bird, cawing a funeral dirge,
Pecking at corpses whilst imagining that
The dead are at peace. It sings
Hymns in praise of slaughter,
The taste of cold fat sweet
In its beak.
Yet, no matter what it eats,
It is still
A beautiful bird with battered wings,
Always crying for more.
Forget the bird–
Let it fly.
Let it ascend into the sky where
The Goat Father will gore it with
His horns. He’ll bury the body
Deep beneath the sea.
Like Saturn devouring his sons,
He will eat your grief,
And you will be full.
Your tongue tastes salt and all
Is cleansed. Where it used to ache,
There are stars in your belly.
Ivy Senna is a Bangkok-born poet, currently living in the UK. Born under the constellation of the sea-goat, she is a human rights advocate with interests in queer fiction, ancient history, and the occult. She has a weakness for red lipstick and rose-scented perfumes.