[response to “For the rest they drew water…”]
She bit into a painted brioche, bent over a
zine and underlined her way through a whole block of words, brioche
snowing like a fat
winter. God, she thought, brushing at the weather. Be a lady for
The ink line wobbled on the page and she
stripped it off and tied it in a bow. Then she popped it in her mouth
and let it sit under her tongue. If only words tasted like my
underline, she thought.
She was big and pink and raw and she
snipped the paper. Hungry. Pretty soon she wore a spread on her
middle, headers dangling
off like pills on a sweater.
[read the response: “In one encyclopedia nothing raw…”]