Merridawn Duckler

No Single Answer, Agony Column, Cosmopolitan Magazine, May 1988

Q; My boyfriend wants to see other girls (sic)
Meantime other other girls hide in their
bushes. Now I go out kind
except my crouch, hair, nails, clothes, erasure
clutter, these rainbows, these inserts, my whiteness,
Nothing works, right?
For contrast, my heart is 21, his penis is 27

A: AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA

Q: Having an affair with strict missionary
I’m the top. But I’m all like
Think, moron! What is under them?
Is it an adventure, an affair
am I (an) adventurous?
I’m writhed in un-confidences, sitting
tuck toe between numbered ads. I am fat.
K. If you cud. Map it out for me.
Should I be prehensile by now. Be real.

A: AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA

Q: I went to college. Girls went to college.
Coffee shops went to college. Class warfare
went to college. At home, high school weeps.
Sigh school burnt the experiment. I am above
dorms. College is so full of empty forms!
Feeling a cliché tighten. My flawless necks
collar me. Here’s my numb.

A: AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA

Q: I I I I have a career. Money continues page 79
No one cares I am not giving up.
F-bombs are scattered over the laws
under the big building. I love them, in a sense.
Where is this green in my stained hands?
The hard work of being a child
turns out has no compensation. Help me, Irma. Get him out of my house.

A: HHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH

Q: Married. Coffee. The light comes and goes.
He screams of tragedy and follows me into lunch.
I’m pretty sick of it but think on the solo. A long convoy
of hounds follow, panting, slobber.
At my works I look out the window. He is in bushes.
I pity his disguises. I write to you for the nail color
to nail him. Don’t tell me how cops feel. You are laughably my hope, joy.

Answer: She is all these people.