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Marsha Singh Apr 2022
I am a hot little dumpling of a
woman, fragrant pillows, dimples—
I am a sweet and steamy comfort,
silky victuals, spiced and biblical,
for a man of pow'rful hunger.
Marsha Singh Dec 2021
is gone; no shiny coin
or sacred fawn or star
to set our compass on.
Marsha Singh Nov 2021
We're old swords, my
lovely— dogged, not
learning from the two
hundred years that our
city's been burning; we're
just ashes to ashes and
in between, yearning.
Marsha Singh May 2021
All night delighting,
then a duel at dawn;
next time let's not
wait so long.
Marsha Singh Aug 2020
It's what you wanted,
right? A prime cut, cool
in the middle and hot
to the touch— toothsome
and tender, fresh from the
embers, a just-how-you-like-it bite.
Marsha Singh May 2020
That July,
I was a jar
of fireflies;
you held
me in your
hands. I
lit up your eyes.
Marsha Singh May 2020
On hungry days, I hail
the hunt, squint my
eyes and spin my guns.
Your heart runs by.
I count to one.
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