Winter 1995 • Vol. XVII No. 1 Poetry |

Grandma to Little Red

I know each time you set out on a stroll your mother yammers, "Careful! Don't stray off the path. Beware—that forest's one big trough of dangers, home to beasts; I worry you'll fall, get your feet wet, break some iron-clad rule." Perhaps. Though, between the sniper and the strafe, an ivory-towered princess isn't safe; the straight and narrow leads to dunces' school, and what constrains the body stunts the soul. "Lived sheltered" makes a sorry epitaph—when passion in the flesh begins to chafe, I'd rather offer decent birth control. Sex is divine—sweet, sharp, and animal: transfixed, devoured, you can lose yourself and lie in the dark belly of the wolf to wake reborn. Yes, changed; undone, yet whole. My dear, I wish there were no enemy. You should shun predators and hypocrites: avoid the shepherd in sheep's clothes whose flock has sold its will for protective custody and winds up skewered into grilled tidbits. And that good hunter with the blood-stained sack? He's ca

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Imagine Danger

By Melissa Cannon

I know each time you set out on a stroll your mother yammers, "Careful! Don't stray off the path. Beware—that forest's one big trough of dangers, home to beasts; I […]

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