John Biscello

There is the snake

and there is the amen

and perhaps

there’s not really

much difference

between the two.

Like you,

and the moon,

and how my longing

bleeds

a fugitive overlap,

i.e,

where exactly

does the queenly orb

of distant gold

end

and the girl

garlanded in blue roses

begin?

The whole thing

reeks of impossible,

of inscrutable pitch,

which forces me to sing,

to mate scars to music,

as if life had become

the raw means

for an ongoing mixtape

made on a pirated radio

for that girl

you want to crush

and pound

into moistened milkflakes

of powder

and inhale

between 3am

and yesterday.

Give me time

and space

and I will show you

beyond doubt’s shadow

where the snake

coils covertly

in the  shattered

heart of amen,

where the girl,

mending fractures,

blends inviolately

with the moon

that becomes her

nightly.