Judas Hausfrau

Judas Hausfrau.
The wife of Lot.
I do not let

well-enough alone.
I do not care to.
But you already know

this. Unmapped,
I am the lay
you called Strange

Land, your risk
and periphery, all borderline.
And yet, I am the exact edge I’m

on. Verge, lip.
Hell’s Jezebels.
I serve you well.

But the night matron
will make her rounds.
And I will put my hands down

holes they oughtn’t
go in. Sweet little
gleaming thing, all spittle

and spunk. Christ,
it is never enough: Covens
of bedroom men, convening.

A swarm of drones. Mounts
of lancers, hussars, horsemen.
A sea of weeping men

with hard-ons,
hard, hard
upon me. Pick a card—

it’s always the queen.
Sir, I owe you nothing.
My dowries

are collapsed. I am the ghost
your wedding photo snapped
into clean halves,

a knock-off joypop
good for a tumble or two.
Mrs. You,

my white dress shines
as black as the night.
I do not fight

it. On the eve of scars
and jags, I am chrism
in the mouth.

Schlaf, Traum.
I wear ropes around my neck
and watch my back.

I cellar the coins.
I purse the salt.
I am tall

in my sins.
Don’t you forget it.
This target

is tainted. Square up
and take your aim.
The stained satin. The Satan.