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bruiser, she

She’s a four-foot ten bruiser,
all flank fat, no lean meat, just crackling.
Her nails wet, bloodied from scratching at my eyes.
She is a Dictator  - Mein Herr – Mein Fuhrer
following her good book Mein Kampf for easy reference
The rules are set; this or that verboten:
She’ll see us apart yet.
No matter we are cousins, she weaves a knot of no undoing,
Begs it off to the indefinite future – promise not to promise.
She’s a wheezing bellow sump-pump,
machine sucking yellowed bile from a crimson slit throat
virulent, loud, it sucks the room of oxygen, infects the air he breathes
It swallows him up
This is love he says, convinces himself daily;
repeat it like a mantra – pray that it comes true.
She is a plus-sized grinning Cheshire Cat,
yes, we’re all mad here, and we’re so so very angry.
The marks of her storm-trooper boots leave black skids –
obscuring the words of so many love letters years past.
Not even this undoing will content her:
she knows it in her folds, You cannot unring a bell.

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