THE VOLTRON LETTERS

past the parapet, flurries, few stars. rounds explode on distant rockets.

ATTN: BLACK LION
HNIC, you: squatting in the tower’s
shadow, a rook passing as a king. roar
yourself empty about how shit should be
in your would be. you seem
to think you’re the brains of this operation—
its heart as well—and would lop your hands
off as proof, your sword flip-flopping
on down to the earth’s blazing skin.

when you change, there’s a face in your mouth. you’re a circus act gone wrong.



“the mouth in my mouth never says
nothing ever. brothers, sisters; you might say
I ate Dunbar’s mask.”

which got you
what
exactly?
you are here
because a million people holler—
fool, there’s always terror
in space, black as your scrap yard animal armor.
the monsters is a-coming and would tear
you apart into yourselves. black lion,
take that key out your chest, the screaming wind
on your back—see how it bum rushes you
off your pedestal? you know it lifts your foes,
too.