She is a sweet doll, three tiers high,

a nipped in, ivory dumbbell.

Her nails, bitten down, flash in the crook

of his arm.

She looks duped, evangelical;

her face catching the icing underfoot

a little.  

There is communion.

She steps forward, pressing her hand into mine,

our fingerprints, lost in glass -

uniforms, shapes of dust,

her...

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