Elisabeth Frost


New Story


They won’t even say why they changed it. You had grown used to reports of the small achievements of humans: the invention of flow-through tea bags and cream of wheat, how streets burgeoned from cow paths. There were no lethal leisure suits, no poisons in the hollandaise. You have never seen a lemur, you aren’t even sure how it’s spelled, and as if that weren’t enough, the lemur in this new story goes berserk. It starts to weep, and it weeps, they say, until its fur prunes and the only sound it makes is of fluids traversing hidden ducts. It feels no hunger, only thirst, and as its claws grow unchecked (it runs nowhere these days), it knows that weeping is its job now, that there is no reason for it, or if there is, it’s of no importance. The end. Bawling yourself by now, you beg for the sweet story of the electric outlet. You clamor for the one about how the Mallomar got its name, or your favorite of all—the short but vivid history of the mimeograph.


© 2008 Electronic Poetry Review