Hazel Foster writes and laughs on a floor in Grand Rapids, Michigan. She studies fiction and poetry, works in the
stacks, and kills bugs with a fervor uncommon to other vegetarians.
She paid her coins
to see the queen
with no eyes,
the buffalo with no horns,
the general who whimpered,
a fin parting his back,
the werewolf, tender
with eyes like mint,
the bloodsucker, half-human
sinister and yearning for the open
vein, the human x-ray
who knew the apple of her heart,
the impossible twins,
nearly identical, but bound
together in their damp cage
part of a realm, that, at its peak,
would only be open to her.