Natasha Burge

he was the hinky man
bowlegged and metal-toothed
toenails of a vagabond saint
riptide feral and freaked

we taunted him
we thrilled at him

neighborhood wild man
scuttling out of his house
with the licorice door
and the droop-eye windows
walking higgledy-piggledy
like his legs came out the same hole
and had to bicker each time they
took a step

closer and closer he came toward us
our little table littered with lemons
and cups and napkins and change

he beached himself on our shore
took in our wares
and loosed that grin upon us

lemonade?

a nod
up
down
puppeteer snipped his string

two, please

two?

we stared at that second finger lifted to the sky
clouds spun off the yellow nail bed
the whole earth wobbled on its axis

two cups for the hinky man?
what could he want with two cups?
he was only ever alone
solitude built into the skin of him
loneliness his only virtue

we looked down the street to his house
was that a twitch of curtain in the bug-eyed window?
was there a mrs. higgledy-piggledy?
was there someone to love the hinky man
with his crocodile smile
and driftwood legs?

we gave him two cups

keep the change he said
and turned like a listing ship
and crab walked his way home

NATASHA BURGE divides her time between Saudi Arabia and Bahrain where she and her husband are owned by an unruly herd of rescue animals. Her writing has appeared or is forthcoming in Crack the Spine, Bitterzoet, Luna Station Quarterly, Ink in Thirds, and Tasa’ol. She is currently pursuing a master’s degree in creative writing and wrestling her first novel into shape.

Allison Thorpe

A queen reduced to this:
debating the shape of an eyebrow,
weighing the merits of lilac lips
or persimmon frosted nails,
lingering the air with scented lures.

I know something about adornments,
what a strong-willed ambitious woman
needs to survive in the arena of men.
There are others more beautiful,
more wily in the ways of selling,
but the customers come to me.

I nude their mouths for boardrooms,
scarlet the lips for hungry nights,
line the eyes in smudge and smoke,
coat the lids with shadow green envy
like some graceful knowing cat
whose preening tongue
creams the shapely limbs.

A painted woman before my time.
Who knows what I could have achieved
in this world, this age that expects,
even demands, perfection.

I could warn them about the dangers,
the tightrope that drive and desire walk,
but a girl needs coin on the dresser.
So I peddle the wares of passion,
heighten the cultured gaze,
whet this desire for the power,
the feasting of wild dogs.

ALLISON THORPE is a writer from Lexington, KY. Recent work can be found or is forthcoming in Two Hawks Quarterly, Misfit Magazine, So To Speak, Crab Fat, Literary Juice, Yellow Chair Review, Poetry Pacific, and Gingerbread House.