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Odd. I write about ghosts lovers, you say,
“don’t get carried away.” I write about
the weight of a rifle, though, its blue-gray
metal, its stock sticking bolt, all the doubt
I had in hitting the man over there,
trouble of loading while on the run, shock
of noise, recoil; you grin. You love warfare,
warcraft, the way I love a dead boy’s cock,
a dead sister’s clit. You, who will never
burden yourself with another’s life blood,
mock this: sex is sin. War? Necessity.
Thank you, but I’ll stick with my ghost lover,
the one whose been to hell and back naked;
who knows about love and death equally.