The garden they promised us has had its pubes shaved
to titilate the clean passage of waters between
us and our solemn envy. Ambivalence toward power sheds its scanty beams
on the maps of our mothers' bodies. On every ground the locust,
I mean the locus, finds its honey-nipple radiant toward stubble.
Point to point circumvented by cello imitation,
husk of sound reverberating in the history of edged implements.
My share in plough's busted. My animal in the dark
comes unleashed from the clavicle, burns south, lifts its head
to sniff out the head. Women beware women each fixed in her pose,
their cigarettes fixed like chalk describing blackboards of the air.
Indistinguishable layers and a hunger to tear through them.
Desire to wield this Sharpie, its single blackless color.
Find a stubborn cleft's field to derive my body's champion.
Not entirely geography holds out hope for our hackles at bay,
a wonder to come under the story of abs and jello shots.
Paradise bleaches me, a poor thing but mine own.
A discarded toner cartridge. A magazine for a gun.
Furrow in my forehead finds a furred pain in the world.
Cracked teacup of her sex and my eyes about their business,
seeking the negative space of pleasure, my own face to avoid.
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