Romans 7:15

by Daniel Edward Moore

                                                               What I want to do, I do not.            
                                                                              That which I hate, I do.

As far as I know it was only
                                                     a whimper of winter’s dark remorse:
the hand’s black glove
                                                       on the door’s blue ice,
a hypothermic eulogy for the engine’s death
                                                                             sung by the god of grease.

When my neighbor with a cross
                                                      tattooed on his skull
said, kiss it, be redeemed.
                                            I thought, even his heart is missing a beat,
starlings ate while sleeping.

Although my conscience
                                                            declined the gesture
made by the saint in the frozen light,
                                                                     it felt like that butch summer

in the scrapyard when
                                                        eternity’s choir of bird baths and tires,
buzzed with mosquitoes high on malaria.
                                                                 Angels tenderly prepped the skin.
Devils did the poke.


Daniel Edward Moore lives in Washington on Whidbey Island. His poems are forthcoming in Southern Humanities Review, New Plains Review, Flint Hills Review and Book of Matches. His book, Waxing the Dents, is from Brick Road Poetry Press.

Image: Fabrice Villard