A POEM by BRE D’ALESSIO SOUTH
a visitor’s guide to Dante’s tenth circle.
I’ve been on a bender, I yawn while gripping the basement stair railing. You’re pretending you can’t hear me, shuffling me forward, your eyes rejected sockets bruised from a plug that sparked and gave up. A black hood, sorry, cloak, inching closer to a hollow void where I’m certain a quizzical brow was once doing the Lord’s work. You look like Kermit from that meme—a scythe digs between my vertebrae. Guess eternal life is one tough crowd. But I’m moving as fast as I can. We both know I’m lying, because one last sin tied to a dramatic finale won’t buy me seconds as the door above slams. Past the last step, you trip slightly forward, a tap dance in two beats, catching yourself where the crack of a hip meets the dryer. Nice save. Winding three boney fingers through my hair, one yank closer to the pit. The one you dug for days while I was too busy up there, sleeping or sinking. Everyone was right—you never know when it’s coming. Do I get a robe like yours? You could be annoyed at this point, but since your face has been contorted, left to crack...dry...poof...for thousands of years. I bet the underworld doesn’t run a lucrative skin care line. We can do this the easy or hard way. But what about the fun way? You’re over my shit and, honestly, same. Looking down, I rub my hands together over the orange light. Just checking the temperature. You tap your foot in the laziest performance of a corpse trying to be human, pointing to an invisible watch and, wow, the irony. The clock has stopped, my clock, the circus of life to meet its final act.
I thought it would be more poetic.
“Everyone does, honey.”