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Cyclops She stands at the stove in a 50s housedress, a grove of little girls. Human monster moves in tight, eyes overlapping, vise-gripping her waist. You don’t look the same! he accuses. The biggest girl comes swinging at him from behind. The woman plunges a long-handled spoon down the rage of his throat, rushing the wooden hilt. For good measure, her thumbs and forefingers stab at his eyes, fishing for slippery plums. He gags, toppling backwards. Why did the monster offer so little resistance? What about her has changed? |
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Issue #28, August, 2002 :
Santa Fe Poetry Broadside.