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Behind the house, I’m told, there’s a river
across a village square, scratching the stone.
They will speak of what was sent, a spider

in the red-gray landscape, drift wood, jawbone,
chorus of barefoot men. I cannot hear
spasm in the grass. Flowering in mud.

The leaves fleshy cut open. Night shift fear
all the creatures underground. Swallow blood
spare the appetite. I’m full of knuckle

faced saints, dazzling radios, bed sheets,
fingered switchblades, bollocks. Lift your dress high.
Before I could speak. Before clitorial

words dropped from my tongue onto milky teats.
Before death trust me. All this is a lie.