His Eyes

Ten years in these eucalyptus groves
   where iodine winds
      shuffle menthol gum leaves
         I’ve pressed aromatic poultices
            against the scar of your memory.

There’s nothing. Nothing behind your blue
   eyes, lord of lies, evil magnet,
      lodestone of my worst nature,
         hypnotic glazed gaze of a bird of prey.
 
Twisted mirror that reflects
   what you think I desire.

 This conversation is you merely
   playing with your food.

You are as incapable of compassion
   as a prairie hawk eating a mouse.

First published in Residual Heat under my pseudonym Aga Black.