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Three poems...

Crullers are lonely, sweet breakfast tornadoes 


Crullers are lonely, sweet breakfast tornadoes staging 

apology tours on your paper plate. They’re also solving

mysteries in the Midwest—today’s quest: why we continue to 

eat Cadbury eggs rolled in pink, spring green, and blue foil that have 

reduced in size, increased in price, advertised with ever larger rabbits

over the decades. We have seen the future and it is 

not egg-shaped. Think cylinder, churro, funnel. 

Crème eggs and rabbits are still mandatory for 

resurrection. Remember nobunny knows it better. Think 

ovulation cycle, overpopulation, Oliver North.

We polluted our dreams and found ourselves 

edging to starvation without an egg to beat. 



After three months 


Sometimes the idea
of something naughty is
better than the actual
body—sweaty/soggy in 
your sheets. Sometimes it’s
better to let things live
only in the mind. Not in 

bed—the room’s dark. Is it
better to dream or live?
Your back’s pink and scarred.  





Vain attempts at art always get noticed. You tend to 

auto-skip the credits of a show and forget that 

nabbing a nap or an enabling partner are directions on 

cue cards held up by your inner child who is now 

emerging from a crypt built out of neglect. You say,

welcome to the nightmare I call home. Welcome

ancestors who search for the shining

green light at the end of the dock and collect

grandfather clocks that chime the hours. You 

orchestrate your escape with poems and vodka. It’s

not your fault you were born—not your fault that 

every day is different, but not. Awakened from your

rudeness coma, you browse Netflix for ideas. 



Cat Dixon (she/her) is the author of Eva and Too Heavy to Carry (Stephen F. Austin University Press, 2016, 2014) and the chapbook, Table for Two (Poet's Haven, 2019). Recent work published in Harpy Hybrid Review and Stanchion. She is a poetry editor at The Good Life Review.

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