Fall 2007 • Vol. XXIX No. 4 Poetry |

The Husband’s Tale

I earned my polyglotic wounds, gold-digging, lopping off, pouring out the    repartee— Rattled, over-taxed, powered down then tapered, from prefab to    repossession, From exalted to laid low, from whippoorwill to flapper. Shaggy, tagged, obligated, crossbred—I dogged the shoddy Like taproots to a farrago. And it was there, lost in a city of make-believe, That I sought out the give-backs and the dirty jeers And gave up misbehavior and slogging and baited guilt, Where I resisted the creepy premiums and the gimcracks, Resisted balking at the new and the raunchy, Clutching, instead, my comeback like cabinet wine. But I'd grown lymphatic—my dominant method, my windowless stucco. All that was left was a frail mask for staging a chronicle of shucks— Cussed out, whup-assed, mushy, unadorned.

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The Wife’s Tale

By David Biespiel

I earned my polyglotic wounds, gold-digging, lopping off, pouring out the    repartee— Rattled, over-taxed, powered down then tapered, from prefab to    repossession, From exalted to laid low, from whippoorwill to […]

Pound

By David Biespiel

I earned my polyglotic wounds, gold-digging, lopping off, pouring out the    repartee— Rattled, over-taxed, powered down then tapered, from prefab to    repossession, From exalted to laid low, from whippoorwill to […]

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