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.

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