Scold's Bridle
       

The house is too cold, my leash
icy leather. Even my tongue

can't warm this bit. And my tongue
is the hottest tongue. Feed me, when

will you feed me. What did I say
this time. You've taken

to recording me secretly.
Once, I at least had

some warning. I spy you
with my tilt-a-whirl eye:

Note-taking. Cock-thumbing.
You like me better

when I'm saran-wrapped. Best,
iron-branked. Feed me

birthday cake. This time
what did I say. Red rises

in the window though
it is not dawn. Match-spark casts

supple shadows: Fanged
wolf. Hanged witch. You stab

two candles into thick frosting.
I blow, and spit, and wish.

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Copyright © 2021 Jess Smith All rights reserved
from Salt Hill
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission