ON BEIGE by Prairie Markussen • Cleaver Magazine
ON BEIGE by Prairie Markussen She is a palomino in the Nordic countries, her hair scorched to a glow. She is the Northern ice floe, the delicate drip, the dusted broccoli top that slips downward into the sensual sliver. She is the slick of that sliver. She is waylaid at the switching station, the drear, the mold, the scaffolding at the church’s steeple, all within sight and none too dear. She hunches into her polar collar. Boys scoff and scratch at their wrists and blaze into their cigarettes, and push the cold clear of their faces with a match. They are blinded by her flaxen; beautiful, she is imagined into their arms, she is positioned for their deserts—they have deserved this for centuries. There are headstones she will not see, flecked with the writ of farmers, and theirs is a hatred that holds; theirs is a right to destroy themselves … chop! chop! read more!