Alan Catlin

The Devil Is a Woman

Dangerous women with their
cold as death eyes, their skip
a beat hearts, their Camel straight
speech. All of them awash with
off-the-rack whiskies neat, with
their sailors-on-leave spiels,
their rages and their foam at
the mouth fits, their attitudes and
their habits and their evil ways, and
their never crossed twice bottom lines,
their bodies-on-fire pacts with
harder than stone men. All of them
self-directed even with nowhere to go
and how they went there twice
without compunction or regret,
never once looking back.

All of their razor slit dresses,
naked to the thigh and their V
necks revealing more than they
hide. All of their men so desperate
to have them, their weeping is
manifest like exiles without countries,
tribes without names, struggling in
deserts not to become just another
pillar of salt, just another road marker
along the rutted highway into proverbial
valley of death, in that place where
all the bodies are buried, the ones
they put there and the ones they wished
they had.

These never scorned women,
beyond critiques of pure reason,
their followers irrational as escapees
from houses of detention, places of idol
worship, all of them demented,
all of them loyal as three-headed
guard dogs, mastiffs and mongrels.
These women who were the stuff
of legend, the stuff goddesses are
made of, their likenesses cast in stone
and thrust into hell where only the truly
regal reign supreme.

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