She found herself caught

between life

and the glistening black death

which was beauty


She held on to the perfect mask

so desperately

it made her look like a crow

devouring it’s own carcass


We are all walking

in a pitch night

dead souls

looking for our mothers

to take us to a place

where beauty can’t be seen

and no one trades on flesh


* Published in The American Poetry Review November/December 2003 as #43