Winter 2003 Edition Selections
by Debora Greger
Sunday afternoon on the Place Pigalle,
a woman clad in scraps of black leather
would tower above me, bending as low
as her stilettos allowed. It was nothing personal.
by Alice Fulton
Edna Livingston was the loneliest girl in North America. She was the only Catholic High student who subscribed to Zen Teen: The Journal of Juvenile Macrobiotics published by the Youth in Asia Foundation (Euthanasia! Someone should point out the unhappy homonym), the only member of the Sodality of the Blessed Virgin who’d read Tropic of Cancer.
by Nance Van Winckel
On the talk show, a former woman
says the new penis is the size
of your thumb, reaching for and pressing
her fingers around the host’s.
by John Latta
In the heydays of which, spectator
To a probable reversal, I sat regularly around
And yakked my big head off.
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