spitting image

in the mirror sits a fallen angel

who was not good enough to be saved, nor bad enough to be lost.

she holds up three licked fingers and rubs a smudge on the looking-glass,

like a mother would her child, who has strawberry jam smeared across his cheek.
a string of spit clings to the surface in its place
and shines like diaphonous raindrops on a spider’s web
the spider will sacrifice her body for her children to devour.

the angel wears a fur fox tail draped around her neck
and chews a wad of bread until it becomes sweet,
spitting it out into a silken token of affection
and holds her palm open for me, just beyond the border of the glass,
a true chef has patience,
but all patience has its limits.
she hides a rabbit foot in her throat
to filter the regrets and the anger,
and feeds it to me.