Diana Wagman

My dog has four legs.

"Three Legged Dog" Excerpt

My girlfriend is missing her left breast. She has a horizontal scar across half her chest, like the seam of a pocket that holds her heart. She had cancer before I met her. I donít mind. I once went with a girl who had multiple labia piercings and that was more annoying. This is kind of cool. The skin around the scar is darker than the rest of her as if shadowed by a permanent cloud. A constellation of tattooed points circumnavigates the incision: on her sternum, beneath her collarbone, under her arm, along her first rib. The radiologist put them there as guides. One night, I took a marker and connected the dots. No hidden picture emerged, just an awkward box around the void. I like the bare expanse of that half of her chest, an empty sky, an open question about what will happen next.
When I first saw her, I was attracted to her right away - even though her hair was buzzed like a cholo and her loose jeans hung on her hipbones. Her arms were a fairyís limbs, lithe and white in the barís dim light, with two inches of dark vein on the inside of her right elbow. I wondered if she was a junkie, but later she told me it was just the chemotherapy that saved her life and destroyed her veins, left them hard and small and turned that one permanently black.

Selected Work

A car accident, a cop, and a bride-to-be.
Two sisters, a handyman, unrequited love and spontaneous human combustion.
Wanted: woman to talk to. 3 nights a week. 300 dollars a night.
The Five Elements of Noir
Black Clock Literary Journal, volume 10
Three Legged Dog
Electric Literature, volume 1