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Paris Flight 407

Yes Paris
an endless line of passengers
as I step onto the priority line
yes priority
the couple in front of me
eager to board
while everyone
eyes the stewardesses
like vultures
hunger and drool
to be first in line
oh to be first

The woman has a gimp
she talks to her husband
slurs
cerebral palsy perhaps
agitated that I am second behind them
yes second
watch her intensely
study her weaknesses
I
now the vulture
note how the husband loves her
dotes
yes dotes
steadies her by holding her petite waist
her sickness
has strengthened some invisible vine
which grew magnitudes within them
wrapping
twisting
binding
as they stand first in line
first for Paris

I’m thinking I didn’t shave
didn’t love
I wasn’t shown
I’m the root
cut before I sprigged
I’m the empty
yes empty
I’m thinking something important
imperative
there’s a wrinkle on my chin
that the dermatologist neglected
to inject with enough filler
and perhaps that is my Achilles
that edged between me
and a husband
yes a husband
that I didn’t want
or did I

And now alone
second in line
with a large cracking wrinkle
the couple moves forward
her left leg drags behind
he steps
in tune with her
slow
lethargic steps
she pulls herself along
he intently guards her

I walk behind
leer at the two
as light seeps in
from the sepia sunset
sparkles around them
onto them
as they shuffle forward
kissed by angels
always the angels

Monsters and Masters

No one warned me
of these badlands
ungluing at dusk
the risk of breath
being heard
and smelled
along streets
without lights
darkness covered us
in such a heavy blanket

Creepers hidden
within the black
terrified me
if I made a sound
I would become new meat
if only I knew what lurked
around each corner
tearing a chunk of me
at each intersection
as if paying these dues
was my birthright

I noted the speckled stars
so far away
yes – noted
as if there was some yearning
for an eclipse
into freedom
or death
that I would later discover

In the meantime
the night fostered me
with monsters galore
at the ballroom
on 10th Avenue
where we’d play
until dawn

I’d wearily seek cover
in a stranger’s arms
my monster
or master
both the same
completely interchangeable
like a puzzle piece
in a game
mastered by men
in the dark

Dead Head

They keep resuscitating this dead heart
keep electrocuting
my shut down parts that spark
a signal to my swollen brain
and I shake and say here I go again
my eyes pop open
I drool and mumble psalms
beg for a hit
a needle
a prick with a wild card drug

Here’s the nurse with her evil fuck-eye
hoping I fall back into a coma from this last OD
I’m wide awake
craving that tit like a newborn baby
and Jesus is here
shakes his head in disappointment
he sits in the chair that doesn’t look very comfy
while nurse hatchet cleans my junk with a sponge
I think this could be the halfway point – Jesus in the chair
nurse hatchet scrubbing the skin of my tender
grieving body
the blonde moon hovering in the window
shining into this room at a sad dead head
while Jesus patiently waits for me
to rip open his wounds
again and again

ABOUT THE ARTIST

Donna Dallas has appeared in a plethora of journals, most recently The Opiate, Beatnik Cowboy, Tribes, Horror Sleaze Trash and Fevers of the Mind. She is the author of Death Sisters, her legacy novel, published by Alien Buddha Press. Her first chapbook, Smoke and Mirrors, launched in 2022 with New York Quarterly. Her latest chapbook, Megalodon, launched in 2023 with The Opiate. Donna has served on the editorial team of Red Fez and NYQ.