a re:formation of the poem
Ugly Duckling by Juliet Cook
One half a doll swath, the other half unruly. This is my dirty-
feathered fate. Birthed of the black swan lace, a high-pitched
soprano solo of my past, but my present is loose gravel, is groveling.
No longer can I make my diaphragm work that way---that heave that
smoothes into sweet syllabics. My new rhythm spurts and gags.
*
[re:printed with author's permission]
