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LINDA WANDT
Session two He wanted to see every cut from the past week. Hesitant, afraid to show these private things, I showed him my arms but kept my shirt on, savoring the tangible sting that came with movement. He took each arm in hand, turning by the wrist trying to keep his face objective, but unable to mask his disgust. He sat back and told me about a girl he once treated. He said when she was young, her brother would handcuff her to a radiator, take turns with his friends. Perhaps he was trying to make me feel lucky. Now I must carry that girl with me always. I went home and screamed for us both slicing deeper than I’d ever cut before. Bond He taught me how to shoot his hand gun when I was nine. When the kickback threw me he’d laugh tell me to try again with out flinching. Said I had to be a good shot before I grew tits. He said there were a lot of boys out there like himself. He said I’d grow a sweet rack like my mom, & taught me to aim for the legs. Mourning Stoned and drunk the futon mattress pulled onto the floor, I lay down and wish I owned a gun. Morning has come and its abusive bright rays slice the small room into even sections of pinstriped carpet covered with ash and spilled screwdriver stains. The smothering silence is interrupted by my loud smoking. I can hear the ice cubes melting for a moment, slowly and steadily like everything else. The visible dust floating in the sunlight seems peaceful and I consider smashing out the windows with my fists. Linda Wandt currently resides in the blue oasis of Austin, Texas, but has spent most of her life in New York. She splits her time between writing, painting and sculpting. More poetry can be found at My Favorite Bullet and Spent Meat. |
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© 2005 Underground Voices |
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