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Cynthia Huntington


For Dora Maar

My neck is sunburned just on the right side, where the sun shone from the east all morning. I lay on the Picasso towel, right on the face of his "Weeping Woman" who never stopped weeping, who died last week at eighty-nine, and when the newspapers got [...]

No One

There is no one at home tonight; no one can stay home. The streets and the bars and the theatres are crowded with lovers and would-be lovers, and you are with them until I find you, my legs hurrying up each street past all the other desires. Sex is i [...]

Here Come the Men My Mother Warned Me Of

Here comes a good reason for taking a cab. Here comes a bottle in a bag, a bag in a fist, a fist on an arm, an arm waving, and a face pushed up close to mine. In a dozen languages, it all sounds the same. Mother says ignore those men. And here come t [...]


"Today it is suddenly winter,"—a voice outside me is saying. From the cheerless stairwell I enter the street—cold sunlight on car fenders, sidewalks white with it. The pain that started behind my left eye moved like a hand down my neck, across sh [...]

Old Love

Old love, you lie there whistling in your sleep. How can you have broken my heart, made it a girl again, brimming with want, waiting for every wind to blow up rescue? This girl's heart is no good to me. The back of my hand lying in the sun says it ha [...]