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Lion Dream I may have been wounded before I came to you, I was I know. A large fierce feline gripped me by the neck back before I knew anything of sex or logic, like a cat moving kittens, only rougher, its piercing canines, its carnivorous breath— it hasn’t let go yet. When the abrasion of your unconcern, saying you love, then roughly “I’m in pain, I suffer, I’ve got serotonin deficiency, I don’t let that stop me,” as if toughing it out answered terror, answered it, yes, like a brutal father, I wake with the baked desert air in my ear, its throb a dryer, scratches at my left arm, mauled memory, etched net of scar wondering about harm, what it wants from me. Monica Raymond writes poems and plays, tries to pare down towards a carbon neutral life (the computer's my last squandering refuge), and has spent the last year ricochetting between Cambridge, Massachusetts and the Twin Cities, where she was a 2008-9 Jerome Fellow at the Playwrights Center. Her play, THE OWL GIRL, just won a national award in political playwriting from the Castillo Theater in NYC. table of contents
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