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by Cheney Luttich

Cupid’s festival saves babies, a guinea

a box when you dye eighty-five nipples fast

black, white ecru and drab. Cottolene

crackers knock on doors, paint five

o’clock chocolate, fleur-de-lis biscuits,

and Russian violets. Sozodont hooks

and eyes, De Long’s hump-a happy thought

for trusty ramblers, Amolin dress shields,

lactated food and woven eggs.

Chickering pianos bang skeleton freight

out of Nazareth, training the Santa

Claus luxury and his crab apple

blossoms. My wife cannot see

how he claims it will cost us nothing.

Cheney's writing is rooted in storytelling, both hers and those of others. She is currently working on a book about spending a year of her adolescence in a cult. Other projects include interviewing survivors of sexual assault to learn how their experience(s) shape the way in which they parent their children. She teaches writing at a local college, enjoys being a volunteer coach for her daughter's volleyball team, and is always up for pizza and champagne.


October 2019

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