2 December 2002 | Vol. 2, No. 4

Choppers

by MICHAEL ARNZEN

She's so angry with me, the scissors buttermelt from the friction when I cut her hair. She fruitchecks my cheek and hostage negotiates the soggy clippers out of my hand. Later, she butters my toast with the molten blades and with a cupped palm under the mess babyfoods me the burnt bread. When I awaken and try to good-morning her, something razorshaves inside my guts whenever I try to speak. My throat guitarstrings with a snap. So I go harpo and smile, silent, all hers, honking my horn while she cousin-its me, her hair growing so long she eventually can braid it with her toes. It's almost long enough to lynch her from the ceiling and towelsnap her spine. But I feel her hands all gyno inside me now, molding new handles to fit her twitching fingers.