To the Griffith from the Cockatrice · Hannah Mildner

I was taught to smile, demure, no teeth. It showed when you didn’t let me speak. I also learned to iron young. The proof hides in my hands and tongue.

But rage concealed inside your hand Enticed my act of speaking first –Out of revenge; some sort of thirst For the blood like that of the lamb.

That thirst was gunning for a goat, Who, with one hand, reached down a throat To nurse and noose a man divine, And with the other, learned to lie.

I dressed up in black and violence, And still you didn’t come. I stripped myself of plumes and hubris; Wax melts over my sun.

You sent your final letter, Your call to the Seraphim. I heard them march downstairs, I heard their guns and wings.

Are you one, now, among them? I feel it through the page: That agony of desire And your mechanical veins.

I think back to you Or just to the milk in your eyes. I watched it flow through Like the venom in your smile.

Now I stare into the mirror. I peel, pull, and shrink in terror As I watch the cold glaze of my gaze Turn to the one rested on your face.

This kind of love can only storm Over the fire in the womb. It works well for a little warm Lighting in the tomb.

Artwork by

Beca Summers

Written by

Hannah Mildner