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Dead Baby Joke by Rhiannon Thorne
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What is red and pruned and bloody
all over? Limp as a burlap sack and softer
than Egyptian cotton, slicker than silk? A hint:
it is redder than a crusade with its dried crud, dried blood,
dried death up past the knee. Here's another: they were
buried out back of the farm, in the good old days, by women
who'd click their tongues, shack back up in the hay. Just
a little bit of pine, not a big worry. Expected, unexpected,
vicious as a hurricane, wet and lungs unable to breathe. Or Jane,
who jumped off the bridge and hit down on Payson Street.
Let's call him: Jack, who came tumbling after, and you
are the Piper who pumped too hard.
                                                                   Knock, knock.
Who's there?                                        Your package,
                                                                   too early.


​

Rhiannon Thorne's work has appeared/is forthcoming most recently in Foundling Review, Midwest Quarterly, Words Dance, and The Doctor TJ Eckleburg Review. She edits the online publication cahoodaloodaling and may be reached at rhiannonthorne.com.
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