Hell's Skin V
by Erin Elizabeth Kelly-Moen — Read all 1,670 poems by Erin Elizabeth Kelly-Moen
The weekend passes
innocuously, slowly, no way
can she go out in public,
she looks like
she was attacked by
a ravening pack
of drunken mosquitoes,
ludicrously patterned
and beaded with thousands
of bumpy bites, "except",
she rushes to look
for the hundredth time
in the mirror,
"thank god", she thinks,
as she carefully
scans brows and cheeks,
gentley touching along her hairline,
noting several half-sized ones
building along her temples.
They are all over
her neck,
and several adventurous ones
have scaled her face,
perching here and there,
even a small one on her nose,
but not too many, not too bad...
She follows
steroid directions
faithfully, avidly,
continuously
holding up her arms
or legs
to the light
to scrutinize progress,
forward or backward,
seems abit of both
as young rash
gets a foothold,
and mature, deflated rash
is growing smaller.
She lifts her shirt,
knowing what she will see,
an almost solid band
of red, dulled skin under her breasts,
"ugh", she shivers, her eyes are wide
with disbelief, but regretably
she's used to it now, after all,
it's better than
the itching pox cycle,
a tiny silver lining,
she sighs, and turns away.
As the weekend comes,
she is sure
she can see an improvement,
thrill is tempered by
slow, slow fading, why
is it taking so long? Argh!
Definately, after the 6 day
course of steroids, it is
obvious the rash is remissing,
"oh, joy", and thank god.
A day later,
she notices something odd,
no, can't be, ignore it,
'til later, there can be
no denying, no delusion,
in between every pox mark,
hivey weals are appearing!
How? What the hell is this?
Abjection drowns hope's birth,
and fear swamps Sunday's
length of waiting,
she'll be going back
to Urgent Care
in the morning,
back with
her rash..
Erin Moen
11/5/02
Tuesday, November 5, 2002
One more piece should bring us up to now. Are there any doctor-authors in the house?
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A very courageous write Erin.
Love from India - Joel -
Sandie Angel :o( / May Lu $*_*$
your poetry is so real ~ as in, it hugs the earth~
'Abjection drowns hope's birth,
and fear swamps Sunday's
length of waiting'