by Jonathan Hunter-Kilmer
the night with claws
(instead of still)
I hear the scrape at window sill
an animated blackness climbs
snuffling for spirit
smiling grime
drips in its drool
a raucous face
with fangs that stick out every place
and elbows like a spider's jut
surrounding prey
though doors are shut
no substance this
walls no defense
it senses souls
ill-gripped and tense
the prayer say
as a lion roars
devouring weak hearts
slick sweat pours
from skin that cannot crawl away
to hide
but stuck in mortal day
so tremble and ignore do I
and think on You
Beloved
and cry
out silently so You will hear
I cuddle close as clacking near
of active scrathing gets a hold
and pulls itself its body rolled
between behind on top of legs
and my core cowering now begs
Your blood has washed what evil is
but how it feels, a foetid grizzly scavenger
that kills and waits
to eat dead spirit at Hell's gate
this image You allow so free
to hover and assault with glee
so I will well remember that
a terrorist is something flat
and impotent when I fear death
of soul, not flesh, You my life's breath
