by Melinda Noack
Where's the romance in sheets bereft of color, & the written word pressedup against the female hydrangea. An old sinner once told me that he named a ship after a woman called “sister,” and the ship wasn't even his, but it was Isabella. Always parting the eyelids of the sea, always strewing blue flags against its body. “But red is not the same thing as beautiful” & ask anyone, and they will warn you not to lull a woman to sleep, because when she wakes up, she will grind her teeth to cinders. She will add too much turmeric to soup, answer every fifth call with a smirk & leave all her roman numerals in a heap. Ah, but you will love it in the awfullest of ways.
Melinda Noack is a haphazard editor, writer of odds and ends, Russian language enthusiast, and future master accordionist. Play her a major radio hit from the 90s and she’ll swoon.
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Back to Issue 6.