Demonology for the Lovelorn by Jennifer Crow
33 lines
Issue 7 (Spring 2025)
You know which three objects
to put in the center of the pentagram
that will summon the perfect demon
to bring your love to you: a leather
wallet full of twenties, a bottle of aged
scotch, and a nickel-plated six-shooter
like he always talked about buying.
The demon’s face wrinkles
in consternation: You want him back why,
it asks in its grave, gravelly voice.
It can’t cross the circle of sea salt
you carefully poured out on the floor,
but its claw-tipped finger crooks
as it points out the bruises on your arm.
Your choice, it says with a seismic shrug
of its bulky shoulders, but it asks again
and again before you break the circle.
It nicks your wrist, and its own, your blood
flowing together with a liquid
like fresh lava, thick and bright
and sulfurous in the air. The demon
apologizes for hurting you, but
after heartbreak, anything else seems
muted, dulled. The sharp, mephitic
stench of the demon offers catharsis,
the roil in the belly a relief
when you’ve grown used to emptiness.
In fact, when the doorbell rings,
you find yourself too absorbed
in your demon’s tales of hell to answer.
You take a too-warm hand, whisper
the summoning spell again, and leave
an empty room behind for your ex,
who will puzzle, and rage, and never learn.
