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Call it a guidebook; how we survived plagues
without love. — In the scullery I breathed

in your aroma while you spread your legs
my face so close that your hips bucked and seethed,

desperate to be treated rough. Out of all
the plagues of Egypt a loveless marriage

hurt the most. In the laundry room you’d sprawl
dazed in sunlight, cum’d and tongue’d. I’m the bridge

that took you from the stink of your husband’s
disdain to places you forgot were yours.

Can’t you still feel them? Once you burst, squirted
across my face. Once you fled these wastelands.

Do it again. Here’s the map. On all fours
salvation comes in your own cleansing flood.