Weston Cutter

(The Anorexic)^(desire)

There are halves. Pieces. Last night
in the street beneath green awning
there was a lonely bringing his hand to
guitar: halves rejoining. Strawberry
jam and—. The milk not poured upon.
The leftovers I couldn’t bring myself
to—. I put a lover’s picture in here and
there she was in the cold next to the
wilting spinach and I—. This morning
I watched a someone get out of his car,
one foot on the ground, and I finally
didn’t want to shout are you sure you’re
in the right place? Even the juice, orange
in a white rectangle, lemon in a plastic
tart grenade: it’s not juice, snacks, left-
overs we reach for. These are essences,
distillations. Tomorrow I’ll set a sliver
of brick beside the mustard and the
last blood-red tomato still clinging to
its vine, shaped like a half-ripe heart.

Jazz Murderers

We were all of us reading the stories
about the jazz murderers, dudes
who snuck up at 10:10 each night and
before the hand struck or the light
tore there’d be some brief etude, we’d
heard of others hearing of it—moments
of eclipse and simplicity, nothing like
what the murderers were about to
enact, shattering moments of brass
enunciations, whole bestiaries of noise
we didn’t even know the nature of,
were scared to consider, thought maybe
there was something offered in that
last bit of music this guy or that guy
or the next (the one shot three times
bang bang bang right behind his right
ear) heard and we read and read but
nobody said shit about sound everybody
just kept writing about the little red
cards left behind, three red cards on
the ground by the body, bang bang
bang, one word to each card—

Sometimes It's Good to Spell It Out

these aren’t        just
       old names:         some girl
got   rained on first and then
      I kissed her       after: wet
 and wet:       and trying so hard
      to be wild:      or how about:
not even          six weeks ago: back
  of her   mother’s  car:   car   neither
of us      could afford now     anyway:
love    may be _______ and
    ________     but  romance   is
  just:     new taste:    old   fruit:
       tell  me the stories:     hear
            the rain?    I’m         just
trying           to    set     things
right:     straight:      lengthwise:    the
mistake that led       to the kiss
       that led         to the party      from which
I’ve    never really left:      warm Kool Aid
     + vodka:     how in her skirt      all
bunched+wrinkled      she came    over
and over again:     to me:      whispered
      that she’d fucked    three guys
  already that night  because      that’s
how many times     I’d said no:    tell yrself
(quiet)(right now):       what you’d have
       done:       (blue eyes):     party almost
over:       the key in yr pocket:     tell yrself
(louder now)       that you’ve always
         known the way home:            remember:





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Weston Cutter's from Minnesota, edits the book review website Corduroy Books, has had work recently in the Gettysburg Review and The Southern Review, and has a collection of stories, You'd Be a Stranger, Too, being released this winter.




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