by Nancy McBride
Soviet women wearing hats
lined with white rabbit fur that covers their ears
from the lies of poor media coverage
not broadcast by satellite or constellation,
sell the flannel sheets,
knotted, falling from Rapunzel’s tower-
dripping like juice from rotted fruit.
Eclipsed knights nobly strive
to win the pillow joust
in cheap hotels with lots of vacancy
for dragons only.
Who was it
that exchanged his godly birthright
for a plastic bowl of beans?
Boston-baked or refried,
reused left-overs from bourgeoisie dinner parties-
diplomatic conversation for distinguished guests.
