Little Devil

At first, he was just a moth

at my shoulder

whispering little delights

during my workday.

New car, he’d say,

his voice like honey.

Early retirement.

I told him to buzz off.

We all know my golden cow

is sending emails,

watering dry debt.

But he was persistent.

Flowers at my doorstep.

A few lucky tickets.

Poetic bitcoins.

When I was pedaling my bike to the office

he pulled up on a red motorcycle.

I hopped on; the leather

burned my thighs.

We drove into the desert

and showed the snakes how it is done.

It only takes a few minutes to be

seduced into someone else.

He has a thing for the scent of need

and I wear desire like a classic perfume.

Rye whiskey, sweat, wilted flowers

weighted by the loss of a thousand loves.

I told him I wanted to live deliciously

and so I did. My student loans melted

at my feet like a velvet robe.

The moon rays glowed on my skin

and I felt a prickling in my veins.

I love him without fear

and now all my roulette spins

land on the right color.

There is no black and white.

My body is reptilian, calculating.

Yet my heart is still on fire.

Donna Morton's poetry has appeared in Mad Gleam Press, The Shoutflower, and is forthcoming in issue 43 of Southword: New International Writing. Find Donna reading poetry with her collaborator Carmen Cornue on Instagram, @spleen1857.