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"The Ice Knife" by Jane Zwart

An impractical weapon: it drips, but

never gore, and its birchwood hilt

will hardly fill a child’s hand. I

cannot eat a popsicle, though— not

even a green I have to halve, two lime

blades in one sheath— without a

thought for the Zambonis hijacked at

ice knifepoint and rumors of Good

Humor trucks stuck-up with their

own wares.

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