Satan’s Kiss by Alan Catlin

Mornings after she feels like
jesus three days dead and rolling
back the stone. No doubt they
shared a vision of death’s pale
horse lurking in the cave shadows
they dwelled in. Inside the cracked
mirror of her life, the lines
etched into her face were as
pronounced as the scarring flesh
that clotted her arms and the inside
of thighs, so thin, the skin hung loose
on brittle bones. Her stomach was
unable to handle the thought of food,
though black coffee might work
to steady shaking limbs, might warm
cold interiors, where ice had formed,
that might never thaw out.
Could barely control her hands long
enough to flick a Bic, light a cigarette,
or to heat a spoon she cooked stuff in.
Two weeks clean and she was having
trouble remembering the sugar on
the outside of donuts was not to be
confused with stuff she used to melt
down and stick into her body.
Two weeks clean, today, and hating
every minute of her life.

Alan Catlin
Alan Catlin is the poetry editor of His latest books of poetry are American Odyssey from Future Cycle and Last Man Standing from Lummox Press

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