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Jah, what would you say to a shy girl’s prayers,
eeked out each hymn, each blood-clot hemorrhaging
niece. In silk-stained clouds; a world of nightmares,
milkweed pods and sexed regimens. Fucking
results in nothing. There is no magic
when the witch is bored. One. Your clothing grows
small. Two. Tilt your head back. Now three. You’ll lick
what I put in there. These bottled freak shows
beggar the dead, it is our job to kiss
them back to life. Cave in. Carve out. Forget
that you have a husband, children, lifeless
marriage. Shy girl. Let’s be what the dead miss;
a spot of blood, wipeout. Us getting wet
comes like this: orgasms without malice.