You asked me for all my monsters more.
They don’t spawn somnolent haunting words.
You see, they have no mouths to speak, or feed.
My muted pets tarry, starved and weary,
scouring their black pens like chicks for seed.
I can’t always be the release they need,
but hen over them sometimes, holding each
in my lap, laying each down on its back,
massaging concave chests and limpid wings,
rubbing pinfeathers to relieve prickling,
while around me/mecca their siblings swing.
Be soothed, my fiends. When behemoths call–
we’ll drag claws across your chins, give you jaws.
Katy Santiff has written poetry in various forms all her life. She believes in densely-packed poems, preferring them to be mouthfuls when read aloud. A lifelong Marylander, she loves water-side living. She currently lives in Edgewater, Maryland with her wife. Her published poems can be found in Vita Brevis Poetry Magazine and Spillwords Press.