Golden Gut

The king of the abyss

writes me

like he writes his daughter.

He casts his silver mandates

to me,

hoping I'll be like my father.

He thinks of me in greens,

but he washes me in reds

so I pretend that

I'm not bothered

when he wants me

in his bed.

The king of the abyss

poisoned

my wine every night.

Drew from my spine

the nectar

with which he treated 

all his bites.

And while he tended to his wound,

with the moon against my back,

I slipped and scurried out the castle doors

and deep into the night.