by Michelle Yost
"I’d rather be a cyborg than a goddess." — Donna Haraway but if I was, I'd want to be the cowgirl Aphrodite or the cerebral Athena, hard as Helvetica — owner of the pillared mind. Sharp logic my ecstasy, high heeled boots snapping in the temple or the cool desert goddess of knowing what to leave behind, the wrappers of fish scales — the queen of leftovers, of short women with 6 ft. souls, all the jazz club brimstone, coals. The singular — no, plural goddess, of colts running ragged, desire, insect casings. Goddess of dissection, the metal trappings the dress laid on before it was ever leavened with lust in prickling jest, in wedding the blacksmith's wrath. Of course I would sort out what's wrong with the footnotes, the science. I would explain away longing.
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