The Monster’s Bride Questions the Motives of Her CreatorTiffany 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?
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