Give me a composition theorist
who wants to drip habanero-laced
honey across my torso. That or
a hirsute director of torture porn
who calls me Champ. You know,
someone who could get the wet
to come walking out of the river.
Who will tell the children to learn
disappointment early and often.
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FRiGG: A Magazine of Fiction and Poetry | Issue 29 | Summer 2010