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Safety is Joy

Alison Stine

What secret does the truck know?
Its spool of orange cables is destined
for the underground. Its mud flaps
are a maxim: Safety is joy. So it goes
slowly. And she is walking when the man
greets her with an open belt, his penis
as if conjured from sand. The horned
god has the head of an owl, the hooves
of a horse, and man’s sex. Because
how else to make a beast? In her mind
she contrasts the body and description,
his height—no higher—what he said
to make her turn. In the mirror,
the driver is looking at her for a sign.

Alison Stine

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