Mishima’s Sword
by
Damon Hubbs
When word got out
that Mishima’s sword
was somewhere in
Chinatown,
I was sticking point
at the 8th Ward Gym.
That Christmas even
the snow was black.
I was fucking a girl
named Myrtle.
She had cheekbones
like retro racing
stripes —Porsche,
Jaguar, it depended on the light,
how tightly the sky
was muscled
and how many drinks
I’d had down at Fearing’s.
Some drops of dew
are heavier than others.
Street by street
the black snow
is shocked like a
body into growth.
Black as the Downsville
Reservoir
where they pulled
the woman with her tongue set free,
old ball gown, sticky
heart, eyes like
fireflies put out.
I lift, repeat, don’t hesitate.
Mishima’s sword
never turned up.
Pink petals fall
outside the Golden Pavilion;
bullets and a womb
of fire like
mothers advancing
towards the altar.
Damon Hubbs is the poetry
editor at Blood+Honey and The Argyle Magazine. He's
the author of the full-length collection Venus at the Arms Fair (Alien
Buddha Press, 2024). Recent publications include Expat Press, Horror
Sleaze Trash, Cajun Mutt Press, The Literary Underground, Revolution
John, and others. His next book, Bullet Pudding,
is forthcoming from Roadside Press in 2026. He lives in New England.
