Chiaroscuro
Francesca Rainosek
It was cold in hell.
Mist clawed its way up from
the cracked beds of settled dust,
and breath expelled from
the lungs in the room.
Neverending tables held platters
of dripping organ meats,
ambrosia, and sweet lotus flowers.
The artificial moonlight
tasted like tainted rainwater,
and no one was anything more
than blood-mixed earth.
Hermes, dressed in pewter
and surrounded by white rabbits,
was cutting lines in a bathroom stall.
His nerves ached and
his paranoia increased.
He was selling cheap trips
to other worlds.
He was the demon who guided
you through the membranes
of the mortal and the divine.
Outside in the masses,
the girls were dancing in
Cuban heel nylons,
black garter belts,
and the sickly sweet perfume
known as Decay.
83