By Cat Enos.


Hell is carrots, you say at 12 am. I don’t think you mean it.

The glistening wine that fizzles out of your lips

when sleep congregates for other people, when the pillow

never seems to call your name; questing for some elusive door to a TV show

where your lust is a puzzle for another person to timidly approach.

You’ve always wanted something crazy-famous to pin your name to.

We call it Intervention.

Here is your third cup of coffee. The purple luggage under your eyes

meets all travel regulations. Have another muffin. There’s no rest

for the junkie now: fat diamonds dripping down your sallow cheeks

from the metallic dreams you crushed in your fists. The beer aches

for your hand and the eye drops don’t seem to ease the itching.

You weep like a baby in my arms and I stroke your cold fingers

as if you are some whiskey-soaked kitten here for the warmth.

I hold you and your head rages, the sinner inside you wails

into a hurricane and the mirror we hold to your blood-broken face

finally does you in.


I want a woman with freckles

dripping in her skin like a leopard’s coat

like sunlight spotting the verdant earth

I want to name the constellations on her face

claim her with titles reserved for the skies

navigate her unknown terraces like Magellan crossed the seas

touch the star drops on her cheeks with reverent fingers

An ocelot beauty

I lust for her speckled breast

I want to read with my lips;

my body itches for Braille.

Cat Enos is a poet and full time student currently living in Chicago. Her works have been featured in Bewildering Stories webzine and Amphibius Poetry. When not studying Biological Sciences at the University of Illinois-Chicago, Enos is the proud mother to several pampered rodents and enjoys kayaking. You can visit her at

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