Basilisk   Don’t think I can’t see it — you have the mark of the basilisk about you, the still, bottomless eyes of the cock, but the darkness   conceals your serpent’s tail, your storybook deceptions, your hybrid heart. In the stark December light, I saw the way you took   whatever you wanted — you worked your will, you grabbed the golden ring. You used that look, sugar laced with venom. Your stare can kill.     © Michael Fleming Brattleboro, Vermont January 2023