no. 25
[Girl]
Julie Carr
In October of 1973 a rough rug and a wooden wheel. In April of 1988 the telephone fixed to the wall. A barrier is constructed between the voice of the man and my ear. Such that his face becomes aesthetic or perhaps prosthetic. Laundromats are erotic and so I frequent them alone. Plastic seats take on the same meaning as the foam at lakeshore. In over half of all cases, a rogue girl will widen the avenue by walking it. In perilous tinny journeys she fails to locate her room. A bare cheek sutured by the cold and some meat on the stair. Now her mouth's intricate movement accuses us of the cowardice we all share.
