<strong>The Devil Has a Song</strong> by Yvette Merton

All bones white hang from a coat
outer skin labeled crisp shirts,
I saw him dressed on a mannequin
glass frontage my only escape
violin grooved between shoulders
and plaster of Paris chin,

Funeral music fiddled from strings
he unfolds an offering such flawless deception,
when hairs on my neck stand up
survival withstands the call of minstrels,
eye’s sideways rove, turning into his head
exterior skin is perfect, untainted snow,
while walking  his fingers hold the bow
deep humming bumble bee drone.