by Alison Milonakis

There is a weariness here,

when one more clandestine affair

turns up pocket debris

gleaming in the virgin morning.

The silver of keys, a fistful

of nickels,

clanking against various nightstands,

making their detached music.

These men don't mask their repulsion

when fingering the knotted scar--

a gleaming crescent moon,

pearly below the ripe pillow of her breast.

A remembrance gift-

a fear instilled display of pimp power.

He of the Saint Afra pendant,

dime store cologne,

teeth gray as ashes.

Though he body might cry out

its blissful ignorance rhapsody

on seedy sheets

ivory thighs part like the sea of Moses,

hesitant, shy as kittens.

No fuck welcome

not an ounce of beauty found

in the 3 AM floozy light

of a highway hotel morning.

She is a vessel to fill,

often wonders how it came to this,

why nighttime has turned nemesis

depleting all she ever was,

all she was thought to be.

At 15 she hit the streets,

cursed her suffering

flung regret

steered clear of gutter garbage,

aimless sidewalks

keeping her back, always to the

unforgiving moon.

Her grandmother once told her

moon was woman,

when life held normalcy,


The moon was cycles, pull of the tides

everything glowing beauty

basked in milky liquid light.

Now, the one beside her emptied

or spent,

7 minutes shy of the full final hour,

she shrugs, places pantyhose in pocketbook

reapplying kissed off lipstick,

furious red.

She sees it all in flashes of crimson red.

The color of her wrath, or

a pouring out

of these impossible wounds.

--Alison Milonakis
About Alison Milonakis:
Alison Milonakis  loves writing poetry, and has been published in Lily
Literature Review, Adagio Verse Quarterly, Art & Scope magazine,
Be Which Magazine, and has a chapbook entitled The Shadows Are
Deceiving, by Foothills Publishing.   She has seen the Grand
Canyon and the Acropolis, but still wants to kiss the Blarney Stone
and see the Great Barrier Reef someday.
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