Molestation Epithalamion

He tracked me through the beet field, entering
from the left like the devil, the bent tips
of his wings crackling in his sleeves

like a slow fuse burning. By rights,
he belonged to another when he took me
to his nest, showed me the stars, and crumbled

the constellations. He trilled the songs he wanted
me to know, rolled his eyes over the sky of my body
to make me feel confusion. For days

I fingered the dark for the trail of crusts
he left along the stones for me as he starved
my mouth into a circle of perfection.