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Mar 2014
God must've made
your hands for twiddling
the drapes. Maybe,
Your ankles gently
rested over top
the chaise, slashing at
the luscious autumn
morning.

Our necks clasped
at the nape, cheek pressed
to your breast bone,
casually whispered to
how you burned the house
all the way down
'cause nothing ever
came from it
that's beautiful.

How my mother
vanquished her medicines,
clenched sewing scissors,
and tried to skim me
like her bible.
She said, ā€œIā€™m sure
there is something under
those tender fish bones.ā€
and opened me
right up.
The first line is recycled from another poem. I am kind of toying with it.
Jory
Written by
Jory  Chicago
(Chicago)   
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