Magpie Tales: cock cold

Cockeyed, she scries,

as if a diesel fume plume

filled the colorless sky.

Her skin shivers

in a spidery twitching,

awash in a wasabi sinus scald.

Should she shave her head,

rub ashes until pimples puss,

lay prone and moan over a backless grave-

-as women in the past had done

when their man was gone?



It feels like pushing a steam roller

wading upstream in the river-mud

to shove a suitcase down the hall.

Why do we only

call men

cuckold?





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