Trollby Nathalie Anderson |
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Troll under her bridge, raw from clawing up her rankling, swollen green with grudgery, feeling on her spine each splintery plank, each trip trap tramp, each neat little goat's hoof. She's a cat–fit rash for rocketing, back always up, hackles always bristling. She's the worm in your apple, thorn in your flesh. When troll meets troll at day's end, what ecstasies of grumbling. Says this: "One drove before me gratingly slow, and the last parking place filched thievishly. Had the gall to ask then for directions: TROLL FACE! TROLL FACE! One won't ask again. I'm the fly in your ointment, snake in your grass, skeleton at your feast." "Uh–huh," says that: "I've claimed my window seat when two come giggling, want seats together, want me to trade: TROLL TONGUE! TROLL TONGUE! Two won't ask again. I'm the stick in your craw, boil on your backside, edge on your teeth." "Uh–huh," says this: TROLL FIST! "Uh–huh," says that: TROLL FANG! Back and forth the bad blood, the belly–aching. And where do they get off, those billy–goats, calling themselves gruff? Here they come again, traipsing so innocent, with their butt–heads, their daggers, their bull–dozer shoulders. Ha! Dunk her or drown her, she pops right back up with her havoc and hoodoo. She's the mange in your manger, iceberg in your bath. She's your nil wind. She's your own weevil star. | ||||||||
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