Mary Szybist
If this has been posted recently, my apologies. I haven't been watching closely.
First Confession
So I bound the devil in chains and beat him.
Oh, he was sore. He admitted his poor
tactics. "Lady, have pity--on me--"
he begged, but I wagged my dogs on.
Or rather one dog. My sorry mutt
whose damp black nose nudged deep
into the demon's thigh. I raised his leg
and flopped it toward the dog who raised
her lips to growl. The devil tried to play
dead. He stared ahead, his one eye in,
the other hanging by its one black thread.
I wound my fingers round that strand, held down
his soft black head and yanked. Why should I pity
him--limp, one-eyed, and neckless?
Even the dog lost interest, plodding
to the window where the sugary snow
fell into the sloping branches
of a poplar. Or rather lots of poplars--
they went past where I could see--
the deepening, unbroken white stretched far
past me. I sat back, decided I
would watch the window as a picture
nailed there, fast. The frame hung still. The snow
blew back and forth and then it stopped.
The picture became just what I thought a picture
should: single slice of branch against a cloud.
No creep, no heave, nothing but reach
cut clean and clear into hereafter.
from Granted, winner of the 2002 Beatrice Hawley Award
First Confession
So I bound the devil in chains and beat him.
Oh, he was sore. He admitted his poor
tactics. "Lady, have pity--on me--"
he begged, but I wagged my dogs on.
Or rather one dog. My sorry mutt
whose damp black nose nudged deep
into the demon's thigh. I raised his leg
and flopped it toward the dog who raised
her lips to growl. The devil tried to play
dead. He stared ahead, his one eye in,
the other hanging by its one black thread.
I wound my fingers round that strand, held down
his soft black head and yanked. Why should I pity
him--limp, one-eyed, and neckless?
Even the dog lost interest, plodding
to the window where the sugary snow
fell into the sloping branches
of a poplar. Or rather lots of poplars--
they went past where I could see--
the deepening, unbroken white stretched far
past me. I sat back, decided I
would watch the window as a picture
nailed there, fast. The frame hung still. The snow
blew back and forth and then it stopped.
The picture became just what I thought a picture
should: single slice of branch against a cloud.
No creep, no heave, nothing but reach
cut clean and clear into hereafter.
from Granted, winner of the 2002 Beatrice Hawley Award