Killer

Painting by Guildford Surrey

Killer

My mirror reflected a vermilion swath
down the dark corner of my mouth--

had I run the red moors last night--
had I leapt onto a doe’s back
and sunk my incisors into its lovely neck--

had I fought in the alley behind Pinky’s,
letting the torn skin on my carmine knuckles
validate my wine-tasting--

had I bit my lower lip while dreaming
of scaling claret canyons and soaring
peregrine as my soul hawk tore
the frightened eyes out of roger rabbit?

Did I possess a bestial personality that
made lesser brutes pay double-crimson
for their chance encounter with me?

Soon the ruby ruffian gave way
to the fleeing of hypnagogia,
the scarlet lip stain faded, and
I reached for my thirsty hunting knife,
loving how it felt in the flat of my calloused palm,
heavy at the leather-wrapped hilt,
the name “Killer” stamped deep
into the blood slit on the shiny blade,
with a lethal row of serrated coral teeth
near the handle;

dripping with rosy irony since
I have only actually killed
some ants,
a couple of frogs,
several robins,
a sad turtle,
a thousand spiders,
buckets of flies,
twelve snakes,
some fish,
four deer, a dog, three cats
and my health--

nothing of consequence,
a milktoast’s resume of malice,
a wimp’s wistful arrogance;

until I stare again at the morning mirror,
behind my demon eyes, and garrulous glimpses
of strong simmering genetic memories
quiver beneath my long lashes,
powerful throbs of my darkest naked exploits
make it triple-clear that death
has been no stranger
to these strong hands,
these eyes,
this heart.

Glenn Buttkus

April 2012

Posted as #45 over at Magpie Tales 113

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