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Thursday, September 8, 2011

The Body’s Vanquished Possibility:

       

to discover pleasure,
    to utter sounds,
            
floats up and away like
            the Green Moths
            haunting my Mud
Hut, throbbing
softly under strobing lights.

It is true,
surgeons have no faces.

In the aftermath,
                                                      
I am a
a gutted fish
robbed of glut
            with swollen insides
            and a laborer’s breath.
          
            My fingers grub around for memory
            but the child is not here.
          
            Little pantomime,
spinning sufi
                        fetal emperor, unfolding your
            soft digits, fanning
                        the flumes of your almost-gone gills,
            
            I am your almost-mother.
            My eyes marble and flatten,

            Magnolia blossoms fall
            from my thighs.




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