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I know how you feel, Sylvia.
The armless maiden was your favorite bed-time story.
He ties my hands behind my back while my heart sings:
Here he comes! My king of the Nile!
For whom I will fight the gods with my womanly magic,
the spells of a women who’s eager to wield away
swollen lips and stained sheets
and her stained soul.
Let me tell you a tale of consumption,
of the flame and the burnt child:
He shoots an arrow into the darkness
and I beg to run after it.
Cinderella is hanging from the ceiling. Her body dancing in crystal light.
how it reminds me of the pink tutu still somewhere in my closet.
Never the graceful ballerina or the mother of the falcon,
only the princess in rags, even clumsy in my desperation,
even unable to make you smile a little.
My shakal faced God, my butcher,
you who giveth and taketh.
responding to dead poets
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