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6 the minnesota review Louise Simons The Motel I. She curves away, a fish without gills, dropping down and down through the space of oceans. The oar of her foot brushes the bottom of the world, as muddy as the rusted blank behind closed eyelids: she is the thrashing virgin, stained by the blood of the bull's first gore— Snow White, stretched in agony under the huntsman's blanket— Red Riding Hood, held in the web of the wolfs foul breath. ?. Now the net of an unknown fisherman bobbles her upward. She is clutched by the stubs of vernal roots. The furious penknife of desire cuts open the knotted fingers. Once again she feels the stinging blade Simons 7 that slit and slit her other self, then drew away like a slaked insect Flow gently, sweet Afton, she implores, among thy green braes. III. They shift. "You all right?" moving himself to the middle. She awakens to the hoarded light of the motel room, with pale sheets pushed aside, and shivering limbs. Half-shadowed, she straightens her shoulders, turns her back. IV. He heaves himself up and steps to the lamp. In the dim glow he starts to dress, smoothes his shirt into his pants, pats the hip pocket, shrugs on the jacket. V. He eases down the deserted hallway and out to the darkened street. He lifts a match flap and methodically begins to pick between his teeth. 8 the minnesota review He lobs away the matchbook. In the bare illumination of the portico lightbulb, it is hooked into the current of the gusting wind, swept in an arc, like the moon's own child riding a crescent of light. ...

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