Upon the Occasion of Becoming a Sea Hag

by Joshua Davis

Small fleet of bottled ships, like genies, sank
into the River Styx. In burlap sack,
I watch da Vinci models by the bank,
two harpy wings exploding from my back.

I sharpen claws upon my lover's skull;
my talons terrorize the ice cream man.
Upon suburban roofs, I caterwaul,
where rhinestone-soldier stars eat from my hand.

Behind the Dairy Queen, I build a nest
of eyeballs spotted with the blood of doves.
Dun feathers weave a mantle at my breast.
I shatter mirrors, baking shards in stoves.

I hunt red hearts among men's lock-pick bones,
seducing housewives mad with lonely moans.

Joshua Davis is a man of mystery, whom we're given to understand shuns the writing of bios in favour of spying on selkies on the rocky outcrops near the Isle of Iona. We suspect his favourite fruit of being not quite of this world -- or to put it more plainly, the pineapple.

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