Red
Her heart hung upside down and arced like a story of furry children in desperate
attire (wings, feathers, tutu, crowns of spoons). Her hair was a muscle of
pinecones and nut butter. She was not a Presbyterian, as some have debated. She
was, however, endowed with bells.
I’ve exhausted all my intuition, she said, inching along the path like lichen; in other
words, she was a tiny tot with flammable hair. The woods make me sad, she said,
and grief makes me furl along the path like a fern in a tiara.
The woods the woods the woods the woods the woods: like a human heart located
halfway between the sixth dimension and Walmart, with a wolf who was
perpendicular to all he cared about. Red said, I’ve got a plan, and the woods
stopped thumping. The two, disguised as non-smokers, fairytaled ever after.
Maureen Seaton & Neil de la Flor |