Donna Dallas

Donna Dallas studied Creative Writing and Philosophy at NYU.  She meandered about before she became a successful business woman, married and mothered 2 beautiful children.  Over the years, she has written down events from scribbles to journals.  She has bundled stories of lives that fell apart in front of her or with her.  Donna has been published in Mud Fish, Nocturnal Lyric, The Café Review, The New York Quarterly and was lucky enough to study under William Packard back in the day.  She took a slight hiatus and is recently found or forthcoming in 34th Parallel, Vending Machine Press, Anti-Heroin Chic, The Opiate Magazine, Sick Lit Magazine and several other publications.


Serpent Singing


she sleeps coiled around a tree trunk

breathes the devil’s chants into air


she slinks out of the garden

her tongue slithers across nights

dogs howl and she hisses dirty gospels

sweet serpent

whispers promises of orgasms to come


all men are charmed by her

she wraps around

a thigh

moaning psalms


over and over she slips

herself around penises

constricting to the death


she will eat her men



This New Year’s Eve


I list my faults.  Lay them bare

like tarot cards across the table and

watch puffs of smoke explode above

me—I’m so bad.


I watch evaporating devils

bubble in my champagne.

They float up like unholy ghosts

into the air—bad girl all alone

this New Year’s Eve.


And the neighbors are having a party.

Laughing and chitter-chatter trickles through

the cracks in the wood panels

The bubbles whisper forgiveness.  I’m such

a tramp.


Angels are banging on the door.

If I let them in will I be blessed?


Will someone come and actually love

me tonight?  One night stands have

fallen flat.

Music travels through

the wall. Angels seep in under the door.

Relentless little things.


I tap the glass, look at

cigarette butts burning in the ashtray

all alone this New Year’s Eve.


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