“I’m shrinking,” I shrieked,
meaning aging,
nearing death
because I thought that to pretend
I was the witch
In The Wizard of Oz
was funny
and would thus communicate
something
if not exactly my feelings.
*
Cousin Rust,
with your look of blood
and sunset,
I’m almost in love
with the lace you’ve made
of metal
Later in life, she was heralded as a symbol of Americana—complete with her own amusement park. But what will last of her is her body of work.
Jordy Rosenberg’s “Night Night Fawn” offers a multigenerational tale of Marxists, Zionists, and estrangement.
Yes, it even has Marxist teleporters.
Where hope even has a gift shop.
