Andrea Henchey


Nearly thirty, thirsty, dirty
She’s’lutty they’ll say but
celibacy’s’ure a drag
when you’re drunk &
wouldn’t you like to come

over here, Chuck? Maybe we can
talk. About Faulkner or
the weather. Whether or
not you like me, would lick
me, here on my wrists or armpits

what? Too far? But if you go
s  o   f  a  r,   t  o  o   f  a  r 
you end up back where you belong,
East and East until you’re West.
Why’d’you walk away. Bomb the test.


The masons remove one brick at a time, stack them neatly. They
scoop back mortar, dismantle my mansion, take it away in trucks.

Scott Baio unlocks his lips from mine, pulls out
of our embrace. Leaves float back up to the trees as Scott

walks away, ass first, his smile morphing into a frown. He takes
our five babies with him (including the one from my womb which

unfetuses, unembryos, unzygotes, shrinks into a tiny swimmer
and slips back into the hot tub between his thighs). They leave

in my purple jeep as the Cali beach collapses. Somehow I know my
job at COSMO is gone. Then my phone unrings. I am unhired. I am

left with only the opposite of everything I want: a page of blue-lined
paper in a Trapper Keeper®, a pencil, a grain of sand in my hand.

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