Yeah, the wolf was real, but
that doesn’t make the story less
stupid, and, frankly, so familiar–
there’re LOTS others like it.
I’m just a rip off of a facsimile of
a copycat. A dime a dozen
. . . . . . in .99 cent dvd barrel.
Oh, I would’ve liked a tale with some
thing different, something fast and racy.
One where I didn’t have to traipse.
I’ve alway loathed that word.
The wolf, let me tell you, was so
scratchy, smelly, beyond annoying,
but I rubbed his balls, he purred.
No matter how far ahead I read,
I couldn’t get out. Somebody made
sure of that. The ending was sealed
tight as a princess’ legs. So
I started stockpiling guns
and ammo as best I could. The mall
. . . . . . down the lane ran specials.
If you look closely at a text,
you can almost always find a loophole.
I did. One where I could wiggle
my little trigger finger through.
Step one: take out the beast.
Step two: figure out what
. . . . . . will take its place.
Step three: prep for the reporters.
How does freedom taste?
A long tall blonde news jockey
leans particularly close. Just like I thought:
sharp and salty, with filaments of honey,
juicy heart, racy elbows, unending hair.
. . . . . . The wolf in me can’t get enough.
Lucy M. Logsdon’s work has appeared in such publications as Poet Lore, Nimrod, The Southern Poetry Review, Sixfold, Seventeen, Conclave, The California Quarterly and Gingerbread Literary Review. She has received a Macdowell Writers Colony fellowship, and taught at such places as The Frost Place and the 63rd Street Y. Currently, she teaches at Southeastern Illinois College. She received her MFA from Columbia University. In her spare time, she raises chickens, ducks and other occasional creatures with her husband.
–Art by Marta Bevacqua
–Art by Alphan Yýlmazmaden
–Art by Seamus Travers