Inferno

 

I dreamt your house

was on fire.

 

It was glorious.

 

I sat watching

with a bowl of popcorn

in my hands,

feet up, but then

stood up

because it was

 

Just

So

Good.

 

Your bastards ran screaming

like rats bailing

shipwreck.

 

You were quickly trying to sell

your other properties

to cover the damage,

cover your tracks,

but you were exposed—

your toxicity burning bright flames

and black smoke into the night.

 

It’s sad the way I carry

your cancer around with me,

scrubbed like Silkwood,

wet from tears,

splotchy from the rough handling.

 

Maybe one day I’ll show up

with lawyers and evidence and therapists

and sue your ugly, fat, creepy, meddling,

manipulative, controlling asses.

 

My last will and testament reads,

if ever I’m found dead in my car

before then,

with no explanation for the wreck,

 

there’ll be a church by the side of the road

trying to steal my body

and feed it to their fellowship flames

wiping blood from their cult-stained hands.

 

But, not to worry,

until then I’ll be cutting pieces out,

rolling them up in poems for Jesus,

 

and you know what He can do with a whip.

 

 

© 2024 Jennifer Wagner