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The Monster’s Bride Questions the Motives of Her Creator

Tiffany Midge

Those plugs jutting out from her neck:
she’s curious, what are they for?

The fiery thoroughfare of crisscrossing scars
from temple to jaw, brow to ear:
should she look for something implicit there?

One eye brown, pilfered from an orange-haired
prostitute in Potter’s Field; the other fixed askew
in her head, a child’s like-new ornament:
is he a misogynist? Did his mother abandon him?

One arm, the muscular backhoe of a fieldworker’s
connected to the jagged star of a hand:
she wonders, is she expected to work?

The vagina, intact and as pretty as postcard sunset:
should she ruin it for him?

The abdomen owns the legacy of multiple births,
a miller’s wife spitting out babes like peas:
is there room to grow more?

What hair that’s left is black as licorice,
sparse on her scalp like a locust-run crop:
does he secretly love his sister?

Her dresses, hung in the closet like sides of beef,
taffetas, crinolines, colors of esplanade sherbets:
should she dance for him?

At night, locked in her chambers,
she hears desire’s low growl, smells iron, lust, rain:
what does it mean? Is it for her?

Tiffany Midge

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