Daimon

The hostess opens the door,

passes a glass and plastic

plate for the goat

 

cheese and wafers, a toast

to the mangrove killifish!

 

Gorging on cud and brine.

 

A flitting shade, the red word

breaks through the world,

 

will not spin fast enough—

 

Flickers under the skin,

behind the lids: a slight shake

 

in the gait that stalks me,

flash wick of tail, whipping

from the corner of my smile.