Demon Slave

“Your demon slave”

—Ted Hughes

“Totem,” Birthday Letters

Warding off Ted’s evil spirit—

Painting little pricks everywhere

I’ve got no other logo—

Penises my sacred push-buttons

I hide them under tables—

Under chairs, under carpets

Sometimes beneath the stairs—

Ten-inch dead ones dying there

It may sound awfully crazy—

But the Druids made me do it

Behind the big mirror frame—

They finger Yggdrasil jive

Yew trees weeping slowly—

I hide them underneath the phone

Blood-splurges here and there—

Along with Ted’s sperm-stains

Anglo-Saxon hoodoo-voodoo—

My black magic talismans talk

Constantine had his cross—

I have my own crosses to bear

Genital Genies, Devil Angels—

My Demon Slaves, the Dead Others

Infernal runaway Yorkshire man—

All my neighbors feel sorry for me

A poor abject abandoned wife—

How could Ted Hughes be so cruel?

Running off with another man’s wife—

Leaving me hopelessly alone, dejected?

I play the violin strings rather nicely—

I wear my window’s black veil in mourning

Years got by and still no errant husband—

Perhaps Ted and Assia are happy somewhere?

Perhaps they’re living in Rio or Paris—

Maybe they’ve flown off to the Moon?

Nobody suspects the awful truth though—

Both of them rotting over in the graveyard

In a shallow grave where I buried them—

Underneath a looming ancient Yew tree

All that’s left is Johnny Panic’s prick—

Pickled in a jar there inside my frig