Betrayal of the Paper MachineAmy King
Dreams a small child she hopes postpones grown-up events, overfed-carpeted green and strummer of stock exchange messages, deified. A competitive lover plays along, tasting of pudding, only sweeter, more pliable than the one we ate in Germantown the year a blizzard took over our sense of direction, our sense of star-crossed antiquities, our need to align murky constellations with unhistoric natures, wherever they mistake us. The profit-thin ghost grows taller in blood-darkened soil, grows blinder with sight the color of sea foam like milk from an old udder beneath the crisp shell of crème brûlée. I’m building a career based on access, the pointing man dictates to his secretary-in-wait, to his briefcase by the bed stolen with a note that sent him home after school one frosted May day for dressing like a girl.
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