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CATHERINE PIERCE
In Which I Imagine Myself Into a Western
Come. Take my hand,
rough from fields. Yonder
the sun sets, molten, unhinged.
I’ll drink whiskey with you.
I’ll sing you a murder ballad.
With me you put down
the gun, undo my petticoat.
The moon a noose behind us. 
Contributor’s
notes
In Which I Imagine Myself Into a Film Noir
In Which I Imagine Myself Into a Slasher Flick
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