SCORPIONS IN CAPES
are what I crave, superheroes
full of poison, saving the city
while unable to save themselves,
stinging their supporters, slaying
their sidekicks and shrugging it off
as signs of their natural selves,
acting for all the world
as if ability is unalloyed
miracle, their tails proclaiming
otherwise, how the mighty
carry flaws forever in their strengths,
and which identity is the most secret?
SCORPIONS IN CAPES
riding cobras are what I need,
lion-voiced, their stinking acrid presence
in the bedroom, demanding that I seize
the baseball bat before creeping to the living room
to see what that noise is, arguing, pressing
for murder as response to provocation
when there’s a perfectly good backdoor
not ten feet away and I could escape
if I thought before acting on their urging,
and which identity is the most secret,
which the strongest?
SCORPIONS IN CAPES
are the balance I desire most,
the good as venomous as the evil
is sweet, yellow death on the rooftop
silhouetted against the sick sodium light
of the streets, in service to established
and ironclad rules that say vengeance
is righteous and destruction is excused
by rage against the destroyer, even if
the avenger and the predator
are one and the same,
and which identity do I most eagerly seize
when both are present,
when they look the same?
Dark Matter 