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Niagara on the Lake, Ontario, Canada
My virtue is that I say what I think, my vice that what I think doesn't amount to much.

Monday, January 26, 2009

Goose Girl

Goose Girl

Snapped him wide open,
spine in her teeth,
three drops of blood, flutter,
a series of shocks.

She was late, too late for him,
an enchantment, his secret.

He forgot what it was like to stand
in the forest and bleed, pressed,
tied, silenced but for the false
dark with mink eyelashes.

There was the lesson of compliance.
There was the animal’s head encased in plastic—
sooner or later the gas had to find a way.

There was no letting up once she started peeling
the skin off her heel, shed her entire, a little hissing
fit, don’t call it, don’t call it fit.

A criminologist discovered the truth
by the stains on her dress, pink skin
underneath and the bees
gathered on her toes.

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