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Sunday, April 8, 2018

Interest in Other People Lacks Imagination

Still, I want to be remembered for asking too many questions.
When I was a girl, I was placed on a saddle, and I wept for the animal

beneath me, her spine a crooked smile, the hot air blowing through her
gaps. Gagged I chided I under clouds let the stallion

lick sweet corn from my hand. The grain of my breasts moved. My mouth
was made for forking

cubes of meat into, you see, and there was nothing left to do but chew.
It has been a long time since I consulted my hands, I only

lotion them through the eras. My loneliness burns. I once described
a man who broke me as having a “handsmooth voice” though I am

too tired to defend myself and too tired to sleep. The separation happens
under my chest, a horse braying in terrible joy. Can you imagine

I have never offered my lexicon in sex, I am silent as the spine
of the animal between my legs. Last night I opened my flower and a duck

left my throat, I thin-necked and anonymous weather, I who groan
as if I am all gap, a line turned rubber under a gaze. At the show,

a songwriter tells us there is no distraction that can make me disappear and
I taste blood in my lungs, the men groping by. But what I need

is to open my flower and continue opening until the flesh

inverts, until my life is an open sore, a clenching muscle that doesn’t want to lie.

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