Anna Maria Hong


A Fable

Purveyor of  rot and whatnot,
entrepreneur of  I forgot,
with wrists hard as hammers —
that birthmark a slot —

grip it, strip it, flip it hard —
ramp my shard.
If  fear be sexy, a synch
& a match —

Gone the way of  wax & worms —
gone like November 2011 —
sweet by nature, mean by culture —

“Goodbye, luck, you idiot,”
said the Fox to the Grapes.
“I love you,” replied the Grapes.