Benjamin Niespodziany


In the tent, the witch tricked the many by
applying trapeze. She removed her lungs.
“Here,” she wheezed to the woodsman in
the front row, “for you.” He held them like
a garden. Like a bouquet of gravedaisies. In
the tent, the prices were final. In the tent,
she threaded her frost. It was the oldest way
to pray and the hungriest way to love.