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Those girls were all narrow.

Sticks, lovely in their silks

they blurred to the horizon

 I watched as your eye

followed and they receded

watched you back, pout-lipped

and hungry for a husband, just

some man to call their own

the way others collect trophies

as if women didn't do this too.


You say Not, that this is nothing

A thing I must not discuss, the

fear you build in, that you'll

combust and rage, a fire that

scars and sears. Subjects too

close, too. I must not name.

I bite my tongue.

Why not, I'm epileptic

the patient patient

I must wait my turn. Turn away

from obvious necessities of

given day. A man needs what

he needs, they say. The women

near and dear, whisper such

awful truths. They call

this wisdom. I am to sew shut

my bowed and pouting lips.


I am blind to these deeds.

I turn my gaze skyward,

command the lark:

deliver this message.

Send help at once.

I was wrong.


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