Today we present a poem by Iggy Q. Roquefort, a rat writer from the glitzy desert who holds its cards close to its chest. You can find more of its squeaking antics on Bluesky @squeaknow.site.

Read for you by Rob MacWolf — werewolf hitchhiker.

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https://thevoice.dog/episode/hanged-man-strength-the-moon-by-iggy-q-roquefort

You’re listening to Poetry Month on The Voice of Dog.

This is Rob MacWolf,

your fellow traveler,

and Today we present a poem

by Iggy Q. Roquefort,

a rat writer from the glitzy desert

who holds its cards close to its chest.

You can find more of its squeaking antics on Bluesky

@squeaknow.site.

Please enjoy “Hanged Man, Strength,

The Moon”, a poem by Iggy Q. Roquefort

a lamp aglow to keep my yellow eyes from tiring

lights a fellow of

small size with vines of hemlock falling from his crown.

his easy grin infects me with its glee and i say,

"good to see a friendly face,

a countenance with style and patience such that you must be the one so long i sought.”

we walk the desert's trails untreaded, just to see if years of silence past stop us from learning

what it is that keeps our hearts as intertwined as tristan and isolde.

his tears, they tell the lion's share of truths

unwelcome in politest company,

the wine-dipped pacifiers and the fights with mothers wanting and expecting all the joys that come

with birthing late in life.

his tender new-grown skin reflects the moon

and my breath catches on the poison smoke

that softens blows of blades and boyfriends, too.

he says, "the wounds i share.

the rest i keep." and i lay bare the truth of what i do.

"o manéd king of beasts," i cry, "it's you whose roaring kept me from my darkest path.

without you, i see naught but mirrored halls where sins reflected true-to-life paint me as truest friend

and greatest enemy.

you swore, with drunken breaths, to watch me retch and kill me after.

and a chance like this will not appear again for you or i.

unsheathe your golden sword, my royal friend,

and cut me down with best intentions shorn from our long fight like so much heavy wool.

there is no absolution in defeat,

but my demise tonight will be a gift -- no more betrayal than a swift divorce." and

quick as desert winter ends, so too

does he release a dagger from his belt,

one crystalline and set with stones that scream of empty eyes and final blows,

a knife to bring to any gunfight in the west.

i close my eyes and hope to rest this time,

no screeching demons, witches, or the fae

to haunt my sleep and ravage all my dreams.

"get up," he says, "and walk this path with me.

i do not want annulment,

nor more blood upon my damage-numbéd paws. young one, i ask again,

stand up and join me, now.

now." there is no countering the words i hear,

and as i stand, it then appears that we are equals in the moon's approving glow.

through mountain trails and caves of rust, he keeps his dagger held aloft as if to strike,

should any spirit-creature come to call,

or should a weak and heartless thing like me forget their place and curse the world again.

the gleam of rubies, princess cut, between his knuckles makes me sweat as i recall

the old adage,

"forgive, but don't forget.

forget." This was “Hanged Man, Strength, The Moon”

by Iggy Q. Roquefort,

read for you by READER,

with CALLSIGN.

Thank you for listening

to The Voice of Dog.