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the dotters of Men

Kirsten Kaschock

were more like dotters than sons. Were more yes than no. More snappish than pliant, more shoulders than knees. Wore more wool than silk. The dotters of Men had more fire than flint, more creole than pigeon, sauce than sugar. They roughened more than smoothened, shat more than squealed, tossed about more often than welled up at the corners. They wore themselves threadbare before having themselves replaced. The newer models they knew to be flimsier, a thin yogurt, with less architectural interest. Each of these dotters preferred her brick exposed. They were not incorruptible, however, and some spooned superciliousness into their tea. And some of these some preferred blow, because of even more. The dotters of Men could shoot up and steal and profit from the furs. They found little distasteful, and less not to their liking. They liked a lot. They loved. Hard, fast, in mid-air. A plummeting. They lived among men as if men were no different. In this way, they were taken in, a naive piecework, stray, a sharp breath indrawn at the peak. In this way, the dotters of Men founded a movement. It, too, was a plummeting.

Kirsten Kaschock

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