Brian Dion
Grendel
The bog-grass is the fur of God;
my mother tells me so.
His talon is the grip of mist
that blots the day's hot glow.
She says in time all things will come
to spend forever here,
to shed their mortal trappings at
the bottom of our mere.
I think this must be heaven then,
and this is why I roam
each night and raid their Idol Hall.
I want to bring them home,
to sanctify those pretty ones.
They do not understand,
and flail about to break their bones
against my loving hand.
I lay them gently in the mire
and watch God take them in.
My mother says the bubbling mud
will wash away their sin.
Page(s) 38
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