Winter 1992 • Vol. XIV No. 1 PoetryJanuary 1, 1992 |

Concubine of the Lowest Rank

She smoothed the sheets, swept the mats. She lay down and let a thousand gnats gorge themselves. They flew off drunkenly like small, blood-filled balloons. Pushy servant fingers plucked her clothes off bit by bit. Only one place left to stash a knife and they checked that too. A great cleansing wind drove their footsteps back; a. whistle blasted from the hall and she tried to hum away her thoughts, force them flat. She wanted no mind-muddying love or hate, so when he entered at last there would be room, plenty of room.

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Vague

By Sarah Gorham

She smoothed the sheets, swept the mats. She lay down and let a thousand gnats gorge themselves. They flew off drunkenly like small, blood-filled balloons. Pushy servant fingers plucked her […]

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