p a i g e    t a g g a r t



Finger God

Mustard Grass

Finger God


I have a fantasy where I squish out all the

republican eyes— I truant the nexus for

the informative laxation— I am wearing

something with an animal, something that groans on the inside and peaks at

moonrise— it's very lackadaisical,

urchin-like, I wander into the middle of




Mustard Grass


small fairytale blue to crack you with /

from the rip peak of book cracking aught

to be / fall into the song or how it might

feel to be melting on a block of ice / it's

libido scarf worn on the knees of fashion /

loot why ridicule the mammoth of the

deep sea babe / was in a song of a stroke

the blond puppet pulled me down / was

rich in the mouth of this / thus hyperbolic

fashion runs out of the pillow / to dream

is to land you in the hospital /

quarantined like this nebulous disease we

are fighting / we seize to imagine the

armory it might take to fight this off / to

orchard the palpable ache



PAIGE TAGGART lives in Brooklyn and is mactaggartjewelry.com and the author of Or Replica and Want for Lion.

in issue nine

I S S N     1 5 5 9 - 6 5 6 7