Here’s what I think about deals
with the devil. They’re always
at night, on bridges, in the backroom of every house you
have ever lived. The devil
wears blue, black, red, shades of white.
The devil arrives and

Usually it’s midnight, though
not always, when the words go
from lips to ears, ears to lips,
lips to lips. The devil always knows
how to say your name just
right, the way it makes your toes
curl, your skin burn, and

Sometimes the devil gives
you the chance to take it back,
just cross that bridge before
anyone else, swim to the bottom
of that bottomless lake, steal three golden
locks of hair. Yet, mostly,

It ends with the devil reaching
out, taking your hand, holding
you close, close, close, until
the sky falls out of your
skin, the waves break backwards, the taste of silver
on your tongue, until
The devil, and you, and you
make three.