Matapalo Death Dance (first published on Style.com)
His head is the teeming jungle that
Boils like schools of bait fish
Beyond the shelf
His speech is the livid chatter of kingbirds
Jarring chatter, flowing constant
Leaving behind body parts
Digested by
Seething hermit tides
Who render all to mulch
He crashes through your thickets with
Finesse of the white-lipped pig
Inviting you into the trackless interior
With a wry smile, a whispered promise
For he is an ape, of course
Nimble and caged
Cunning as the vipers
In his fingers and tongue
For when you are lost he’ll open up
The nectar bats in his throat
Sickly sweet questions that
Unburden every secret
Avail the forgotten promises of your heart
And break them, one by one
Until lights flicker dim and
The sloth pads through his eyes
And just as you loathe each cell in his being
And vow to leave him
He is the macaw’s scarlet flourish
Temporary as falling light
