Dead End

by Claire Scott

Thin as a communion wafer she prays to the saints
Saint Eleanor of the Wispy Waist
Saint Martin of the Iron Will

she endures the siege of long afternoons
with a single glass of skim milk
listless evenings of thin apple slices

draconian rules, a deviant liturgy
calories counted like rosary beads
on a necklace of shame

she is her own punishment

only tenuous ties
to a stalled world where anything can happen
because it already has

pale images float above like Luna moths

cracks in the ceiling
the rumble of traffic
the smell of English Leather

her neighbor’s hands groping, insistent
tugging at her nightgown
don’t tell

barely teeth and bones
fading like a cat’s last grin
triumphant