Chris Crittenden


are you tadpole or anaconda?
bugaboo or truth?

is your tongue pert
like a silver prick,
chic with cruelty?

or are you grubby,
slothful and broke—

glass crown licking
a gutter?

i run from your chase
till vigor laminates
my muscles

but when you catch my heart
i loathe

your horns, which gouge
peace, poise and trust—

like a minotaur
hid yet invincible,

trampling hope, and piety too—
as if to say to god

am i the monster
you intended?