Three-Ton BabyDonald Illich
A three-ton baby learned to make her own bottle before trampling downtown and its flashing lights, people who are celebrating birthdays on the exact day the rampage begins. She was at least well fed, not angry but curious how cars would overturn, the noise their inhabitants made when they were squished between her toes. Eventually this child would learn how to shrink, to possess her classrooms with laughter and bits of song. Grades would stain her reports, badges mark her Girl Scout uniform, boys would throw bugs at her then kisses. Nothing would be like it once was when even the clouds came down to her head, and the delicious billboards crunched in her mouth. Those days would return to her in dreams, appear in reveries at school, when the teacher flung a question she couldn't answer at her self-esteem, and she heard a gurgle then a stomp of her foot, a grape's busted pulp bursting out of its skin, the imagined body spattering juice.
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