Georgia, 1946

because my hands would burn to a cinder

were i to slip between your china skin

and the soft give of your waistband

i use a whisper of glass to pry you open,

like an oyster that falls to young

shaking hands

weeks before they will shatter

against your cheek


and        how the reeds are whispering by our filthy water

and        you and i                 free and bare and shivering

with only a blade of innocence

between the place where my                               

grass grows

and your sweet fold


a gateway to somewhere deep that smells         

of cotton


and blood


oh sister!


when will we fall from this eternal nowhere

and bake the wet earth like clay in a kiln so that


centuries later


we may hold this ancient shrapnel between

our trembling fingers

wipe it clear of the grime of age


and look


my love


a shard which is blue

and white


and perfect

🌷 (3)

◄ if my ugly had a shape it would be a spiral

rapture ►


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