I'm reading tonight with Baron Wormser. I haven't laid eyes on him since last summer, so this will be a happy reunion, so long as I'm not still coughing and sneezing. I spent yesterday evening under the couch blanket with Paul, sniffling and watching the Red Sox beat the pants off the Yankees, which may be why we're both feeling better this morning. But later I did have a night full of anxiety dreams: lost in a Los Angeles parking garage with movable floors, forgetting to read the poems I was supposed to judge for a contest, neglecting to bring any books to sell. So I'm only sort of feeling better.

Here's another of my Fiend poems, one of that set of four I wrote while copying out Paradise Lost.

The Fiend’s Soliloquy

Dawn Potter

O Hell!

The truth is I leaked tears

the instant I laid eyes on you, my idle pair

of babes, plump as pomegranates,

sporting with your lions and tigers and such:

Only clay and water, I’m sure, but so realistic!—

all those wanton ringlets and kissable folds . . .

Well, any fool might mistake you for angels,

and I, though unfoolish,

admit a penchant for pretty faces

and a miracle. How ever does He do it?

Always, my thoughts pursue that wonder,

and you, mirror of my wonder,

you also they chase:

Why conceal it?

I could love you.

So shall I say

I’m sorry the wind has shifted

and grim winter lurks in the east?

Let me be frank, my doves:

Shall I, unpitied, pity you—

gathering your melons and rosebuds,

licking up your milky dregs of delight?

Call it love, if you prefer, but I will have you.

Does it cheer you to know

that likewise you will have me?

In the evening by the fire,

how we will argue, our shabby children

scampering amok among the ashes!

Poor chucks, should I,

at your silly sweetness, melt?

Well, I do. But too bad.

[from How the Crimes Happened

(CavanKerry Press, 2010)]