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After your third moon’s dry menstruation,
after your third divorce and third tonic
without the gin. After the gin. Pardon
this dull child in love with you, your chronic,
lickity-clit poetry. The lyric
of the older woman and her green bud.
I can’t fly, but I can lick like a buck
at a salt-lick. Fill you, with acid-blood
alcohol and joy. Pardon your dull child
who makes you cry and cum. The gods, leading
me to you, knew your needs. We are all crude.
Shameless. All these teachers and students. Wild
fucks and praise for learning new words; making
what you call “motherly love” sound so rude.