by Nick Gisburne
I’m out on a date, with the daughter of Death.
Her dad said, “Don’t worry.” So that’s what I’ll do.
She freezes the wine with the frost of her breath,
And withers the waiter, now purple, no, blue.
I mention what’s not on the menu: my skin,
But somehow she nips off and nibbles a piece.
The warmth of it widens her sickening grin.
I try to distract her, with stories of Greece.
The land, and its legends, are classics, of course,
But, hearing her whisper, I see my mistake.
“My father’s Egyptian, my mother was Norse.
If tied up and tortured, which side would you take?”
I shiver. “The one with the cult of the cat?”
She nods. “I won’t eat you.” Thank Odin for that.
