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Tag Archives: Katherine MacCue
Love is to hold the legs, not the hands; to search for them, and upon discovery make them your enemy, your opposing force. Love is the cunning cat, who licks at your feet, offers you a sandpaper stroke. It feels … Continue reading
Small blue color and smokeless flame, the trash pit lacked a mud clay and when ignited by the matches, the strip mine burned its embers out, subterranean veins of coal were breathed on with hot breath, kindled in its hearth, … Continue reading
Shallow water and soil, the mudflats you make are littered with dead fowl. The Laysan Albatross could not survive, desperate to get home to its mate, stopping through the Pacific flyway to gather vegetation, flora soaked in a green tongue. … Continue reading
Girls talk of romance in the college cafeteria. One roommate describes to the other her relationship in anecdotes: when he bought her a stuffed animal, when they publicly held hands, when they first exchanged affectionate glances underneath worn-out bed sheets … Continue reading
Hands. We fill buckets with them, full of raspberries. My father knew her by them: stained and scarred from apologies that made hot pies, tarts, puckered lips that got wiped with the edge of a shirt. Red. He witnessed the … Continue reading
The phallic nature of the horse; I was never drawn to them the way the other girls were. My desires never took the form of a deep plunge into soft brown from the head – or even the elongated middle … Continue reading