Her kiss the kiss
of death, or, at the very
least, some aggravating
hoof and mouth

She is the vampire of midweek specials.
Her kiss—never mind
that—just sharing a beer
with Her leads
to penetration of the Over-
wrought Soul

She has left her mark—
a fox bite
a barbecue fork gone beserk.
I hold my fingers to check
the patient's pulseĐthe dike
will not hold. The blood
hiccups its

I turn my pockets out under
a complicit moon: garlic,
with an expiration date from the last
millennium, a plastic crucifix, whose
Christ has been
at the feet

She is bloated, downright
fat—her eyes a lunar sliver in
a satiated haze.
When she hovers over my
bed, I muster all
my strength and whisper,
"We can't go
on like this?"

She rubs
the sleep
from her eyes and reaches
toward my cheek.
I stay fixed
on the light until—her
tongue in my ear—
she covers my face with her hair

Joseph Coroniti

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