Rotting-Pit Woman

Limes by Clara Coukell

Rotting-Pit Woman by Chiara Moran

Callused hands press  

against sunset stained flesh 

her mother spits,

tosses the fruit back.

No one’ll know it’s dead  

if it's pretty enough.

Least that’s what they thought

when they tried to sell it. 

Ain’t that wrong mama? 

Sure is

couldn’t fool me though. 

don’t matter how pretty it is, 

You can always smell the rot

Humming, she squeezes

at the pouch

One spritz at the neck, 

Two at the wrists,

Not too much, you ain’t cheap

Cloying orange settles

against a still pulse

Dry, pink powder cracks

on pale white cheeks,

Rose gloss sticking to her cold lips:

A garden blooming above a grave

Two dark spots shine in the mirror,

and she lays her brush down. 

A hand flutters, teasing at red hair.

Pink-sugar lips part,

whisper - 

No one’ll know it’s dead if it’s pretty enough

In the backset,A boy reaches, grasps,

rubs at the chill of blanched skin.

Pressing his nose into the curve

he smells peaches, oranges

- rot

Later, magnolia petals 

will play among graves,

strewn about by a timid,

dancing breeze. 

Sticky lips kiss 

a still cooler cheek

Garnered with the pink

of rouge and gloss.

Curled up over the pit, 

she hums sweetly,

Regifting life unto him

with each

pretty 

stroke