The Bat

the bat, though seldom seen by them,
is heard; it squeaks in strange cadences
that signal, assuming such a thing is possible,
distress at living, and like lunatics wishing
voiceless sleep it too moonward directs its blasphemy
—with baby teeth, baby hands the bat,
clutching at the air it waits to surf in solitude
visits the newly married in their fragile states—
clews, claws and peeps from branches outside
their sleep, insinuating the mad lies of
envy, lust, ennui; it destroys with the simple
flapping of its wings contentment, for complex,
hidden and contrary is the way on which it flies,
always restless, red-eyed, depending sadly
on the discharge of their anxieties,
feeding as though ravaged on the blood they can’t
afford to give, and it tarries, sure to carry
the threads that bind lie to lie, to make
men and husbands small as they and fearful
of their imprint—physicality—suffering instead
the night, that filled with portals to the place of
dreams leaves indistinguishable Satanic fantasies
from their lives. It leaves like fossils too distorted to
identify clues of some dark angelic order—
an entelechy radiating wishes for misery and decay.
Love dispels the bat, because always forward flows
the tide of death, but love, against the tide does good
to those who seek us harm, and as light departs,
the loving soul turns back, invoking that
first moment of creation that resisted darkness,
commanding dawn to start—the dove defeats the bat.

 

 

Thanks for checking out my poem.

Did I tell you I wrote a novel? You can also donate some of your hard-earned dollars down below—that’s money to me, for free!

 

Gabriel Muoio

$1.00

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