by Susan Krueger
She ate his hands.
First she boiled them,
and boiled they grew,
soaking up water like bread.
A recipe for her resentment and his indifference,
she took his hands,
placed them carefully on the kitchen table,
and with her iron she worked them flat.
They were her babies.
She held chem limp to her mouth.
The air
in-out-she pushed with all her might,
and took the plump, soft, swollen paws,
covered them in lemon juice,
placed chem in a pillowcase,
then fell asleep,
clutching the white cotton
full of hands.
Susan Emma Krueger has bled on Elie Wiesel and screamed like a giddy school girl while receiving an autograph from Li-Young Lee. She was once asked by Gorbachev’s Press secretary if she had a tattoo on her hand. As a child, she survived electrocution by Christmas tree lights and was forced into a straitjacket by doctors and nurses attempting to extract a popcorn kernel from her nose. Susan calls Minnesota home but wishes it was Panama. She and her friends are currently starting Art Front Community Space, an experimental gallery in Provo.
