Vachon Imagined

As I rage against the machine,
I rage against the devil.

Have you met him?
she asked,
across lattes and vivid dreams
held together by scones and other velour.

Pushing her chair back in defiance,
an arrogant question—
as she too faced the devil she did not know,
the devil of a stance she could not honor,
that she would not accept.

So she blamed the question.
She blamed the girl.
Traded it for Rodeo Drive,
for the one on Rodeo Drive
who takes from the poor to reap the benefit,
to reap the reward of the lust
that put her on stage
and keeps her there
for as long as it lasts,
for as long as they let her.

Want me.
Be me.

But she instead sat
at the table for the next unsuspecting witness
who would call a phantom the devil,
her own name a temptress.

Come to me.
Come to the light.
Come to the rage.

Become it.
Dance with it.
Dance with the devil you know,
to see the one you do not.