Sandy Longhorn

I keep five curses curled

in the treasure chest tacked behind
my spleen, the incision long since healed.

They are seedlings yet — will bloom the night
I swallow broth of rosemary & ruin.

Then, I’ll razor out the rank bouquet,
concoct a stew I’ll bring in servitude to you.

May the daily news be filled with stories
of your sins,
your name a badge-bright blight.

May your tongue be rough & splintered,
a twisted husk
wrung dry of lies.

May the scaffold you erected
around your black heart
harden.

May the voices squawk in your ear
until you are driven
to hammer and claw.

May you fade into a shuffle, a soft slipper-shoe
forgotten in the depths of closet
shadows.

No, father, I am not your one good daughter.