Issue Seven – Abigail George
As I pluck the child from the air.Your face is wet, she says. She is white teeth,and fever, the tapestry that is made of cloud.She doesn’t understand the word blaxploitation.Her hair is egg shampoo. She doesn’t eat carrots.She prefers chicken instead. Her body is themountain light in summer. Her laughter is a bird,a horse, a…

