Lucía M. Polis The Poetry of

The Devil lives on the margins
of my domain.

At dawn, he sneaks through the brambles
his wizened face
cut up by thorns
                        again.

In the day, while I’m at work,
he snips at my trees,
he pees in the breeze,
he gulps down his beer
                                 then burps.


Honestly, I don’t think that he
means true harm.

I don’t even think he knows what
meaning is to begin with;
he just tends to his shed
                                    of weed

or to his apple trees, or pears.
He just seems not to look
when his pointed tail whips
                                        through the air
singing his grass.


Nor does he hear in the night
the chickadee’s call,

when throaty Cerberus
walks past my house with him,
just barely there
                        at all.