by Sarah Satterlee

Seven

Like the cinematic undead
she turns,

fists white and closed;
two night blossoms,

each narrowed eye
an animal mouth.

The first time I saw her
she was slick and limp

a blue stone pulled from an ocean,
fluorescent light caught

in her mineral skin,
dead heavy in their gloved hands

until she howled; a wild wolf.
Years later, cheeks flushed

with miracle cells,
she scowls as my fingers

brush her hair, and I love
the beast in her.
– – – – –
Sarah Satterlee is a graduate of Rhode Island College. Her poetry and prose has appeared in McSweeney’s Internet Tendency, Rattle, The Nasty Women Project, and the Maine Review among others. She lives in Rhode Island with her daughter.

Please follow and like us:
Load More Related Articles
  • A Poor Idea of Pillow Talk

    by Jaime Faulkner A Poor Idea of Pillow Talk I ask him what I should do with his body shou…
  • The Distance of Funeral

    by Matt Gillick The Distance of Funeral A silent film actor died a few days ago. The mourn…
  • Waiting for Death

    by Anna Kapunga Waiting for Death Smell the flesh in the vents Blue sky through the grid l…
Load More By lipstickparty mag
Load More In Art/Lit

Check Also

A Poor Idea of Pillow Talk

by Jaime Faulkner A Poor Idea of Pillow Talk I ask him what I should do with his body shou…