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FUCK OFF || Candice Wuehle


♥FUCK OFF♥

 
Bravery was nothing, call it the escaped whelp.

Call it the emotion with no memory & no count, no

Rhythm and therefore no record worth repetition

For the keeper’s account. Bravery was nothing

But the dumbest animal’s ability to stand and stand

And stand alone in the pasture past the time

Others felt en masse.         I would not think through. In

Order to allow for every hoof you have to harm

The hard-packed earth, I stood still. I am I am monster

Of endurance for you, it happened while I was holding

My heart in a bag by the bag I keep my stomach in; I told

You I don’t need to eat—you eat. I’m admiring you, your

Babied teeth and curated crawl. You

Ravenous wolf, you whip. I want to be a bride’s

Maid all my life in your eternal train only because you

Promised to marry

Everything; only

Because I’m the bitch

& you’re the doggess I did it for.

Hound-girl, would I have come to believe there was light

Worth love without your howl? I mean

To know an unshatterable

Slant, resilient

Strain.

Of all the concrete covering the earth,

Also all the low pools of dim dark glow,

Also in the end even I when alone

Ended in the street, with another,

Explaining I counted on you to count myself and having lost

You, I was only

Nothing.

I need two

To know I was

One.

I needed the forgery

To know I was unforged

Creation.

____________________

“Dear Ra” by Johannes Goransson

____________________

Candice Wuehle is a graduate of the Iowa Writers’ Workshop in Iowa City, Iowa, holds a Masters in Literature from the University of Minnesota and is a PhD candidate at the University of Kansas where she is a Chancellor’s Fellow and the Assistant Poetry Editor of Beecher’s Magazine. Some of her poems can be or will be found in The Volta,  Inter|ruptureNOO,  BoaatFairy Tale ReviewBlazeVOXSOFTBLOWSimilar:Peaks:: and The Atlas Review. Candice’s chapbook, cursewords, is forthcoming from Dancing Girl Press.



All the Corazons in Spanish Songs // New Fiction by Rhoads Stevens


I wanted to take a shower by myself. It had been a while since I had taken a shower by myself. I could not take a shower by myself because, if I did, my fiancée was convinced I was showering for another woman. I would be making myself pretty and clean for another woman that wasn’t her.

     “You are taking a shower to make yourself irresistible,” she would say.

     Or if I wasn’t showering for another woman, my fiancée was convinced that I was showering with another woman.

     “I can hear the two of you rubbing each other,” my fiancée would say. “You are not cleaning each other. You are rubbing each other.”

     I would open the shower curtain, try to show her I was in the shower by myself.

     “Where is she then?” I would say. “Is she in the drain?”

     “Yes,” she, my fiancée, would say. “That puta is in the drain.”

     I thought of a woman in the drain, her face up close to the grate. She had her mouth open and flapping, and she was sucking at all the water that came off my body. This woman was most certainly not my fiancée.

     We were in the shower together right now. I soaped my fiancée, and she soaped me. We had a routine when we showered together.

     I soaped her legs so that, next, she could shave them. She insisted on cheap razors. They got dull after one or two uses, but she would use them for a month. And she would shave herself fast and carelessly. She often gave herself cuts on her ankles or heels. A cut right where the inside of her thigh meets her groin.

     This time, though, she didn’t cut herself. After she finished, she proposed that she should shave my legs. I hadn’t shaved my legs in years—not as long as I had known my fiancée. I said I didn’t want her to shave my legs.

     “Why?” she said. “Because of the women?”

     She soaped my legs. “Tranquila,” she said. She started shaving me fast, and only a few strokes into it, she peeled my shin. The water came off of me, and it went into a mouth.
     

–––––––

Rhoads Stevens grew up in Honolulu and lives in Providence.