February 12, 2011

In Prison
they called him Ojos de Leon.

He is beautiful
even in a dead drunk snore.
His skin velutinous, never needs lotion.
He looks through golden eyes half blind
intoxicating with their creeping greenness
and it’s contrast on black lashes.

He claims to tire of compliments but mentions all of them.
He resents love it’s conditions and it’s shortcomings.
It can’t change
his un-lovable-ness.
So he numbs it
with powder and booze.
He knows he will disappoint.
He knows that in the beginning
we will see him as we want
rippling muscle and tattoo
voluptuous lips
waist a tight v, ass round.

At first meeting he looks you dead in the eye.
Holds you.
His stare a dare
to see him through his blunts and bottles
his three kids and counting.
He is still settling to his own murky bottom.
There is intercourse in his look.
He’s sizing up the strength of your backbone
and like the lioness you will have to work for this.

But all you can do is wonder
if he’ll look at you like that
when you are underneath him
sturdy paws around you
You imagine the moment his smooth chest
becomes ruddy
the tiniest goose bumps rising.

Motherless eyes say
you don’t know
the river
of pretty-broken-things
that runs beneath
this lion’s exterior.



Cassandra Dallett lives in Oakland, CA. She is a sometime student, and a full time mama. She writes poetry and short memoir. Cassandra has published in Cherry Bleeds, Hip Mama, The Chiron Review, Milvia Street Journal, Criminal Class Review, Ascent Aspirations and The Beat Museum of San Francisco among others.

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