Issue 7, Winter/Spring 2009

Steak Tartar, by Juliet Cook

It looks like the hinges are broken.
She can barely shut without drooling.
Without pooling in the throes of her

girl vomit fetish.  When she bends
at the waist to hurl, it’s a peep show
of vile stomach acid, seeped -through waste paper

and clotted red skivvies.  A bloody succession
of unfortunate incidents involving meat thermometers
inside janitors’ closets.  Red mop water

fruit punch and her sour apple jelly;
her bleeding felt tip pens skewered
with bite marks with metallic fang velocity.

Like a bear trap, her triangular indentation
in all its hairy ferocity.  Her stained silk pleats. 
Her acid bath indigestible gristle in rare meat.