Hela

Tribute

(This is the story we tell, the joke

That I laugh at, again and again.)

 

She walks into the building,

A black splotch against the walls

Candy-pink as spread labia, gold as glitter,

Footsteps smoking in the soft shag carpet,

One foot dragging. The tasteful flowers wilt

To limpness as she passes. The secretary,

With perfect hair and eyes, shudders

As Death stalks in, and no one stalks like Her.

A frightened snatch at the phone - "She's here!"

And the sigh on the other end. Send Her up.

 

The love goddess behind the desk is frazzled

As love goddesses go, her perfect hair

And eyes are tired as she surveys the file

Spread out on the desk, the skull seal on the papers,

The great black letters - EXPEDITE -

And Hela sitting unmoving, patient,

A black hole wrapped in shrouding.

 

One crumpled sheet in that file

Is mine, my handwriting large and childish

Like a letter to Santa. Send me someone

Who will love me forever, and then some.

The rest is hers, line after line, page

After itemized page, stamped with skulls,

Reeking of rot.

 

(This is the story we tell, the joke

That I laugh at, again and again.)

 

Send my boy someone to love him,

Since he seems to need that so much.

Send him two of them, as he is greedy,

As different from each other as night

And day, yet each perfect. You can do perfect.

That's what you're good at, you hussies

With your hair and eyes, your glitter.

Or at least as perfect as is good for him,

Which is exactly this much. Make them love him

Far more than he deserves, in spite

Of all his cruelty, his selfishness, his

Obsessive hobbies, but not so much

That they cannot challenge him.

 

Send my boy someone to love him,

To keep him body and soul until

He is worn out from my work. For he

Is a stubborn whelp, and will not see

Any love I give him as worth the cost.

So if he must have human flesh and flaws

Make them the best, and I will pay

That he might be warmed at night between

Two flames, the ungrateful wretch.

 

Send my boy someone to love him,

And perhaps he will feel my love

Through theirs. But likely not.

 

The love goddess sighs again, and taps the page-

This is going to cost you.

 

If Death could snort, it would be the sound

Of fractured bones grinding together, the creak

As foundations give way, the rumble of the

Earthquake under the overpass.

 

I'll take it out of his hide, She says.

 

(This is the story we tell, the joke

that I laugh at, again and again,

because I am a stubborn whelp,

too much of an ungrateful wretch

to weep in gratitude.)