Monday, January 18, 2010

I Want You To Have a Baby

The lover must love.
But she doesn't have to wash the clothes in the rain;
Scour the stains
Out of vomit-stained clothes.

Flogging herself, in evening devotions,
She crawls to the river, and floats on her back, out to sea.

And from the tributaries,
Come other lovers.
They soak in the cool waters.
Rain bounces off their skin,
Like the flecks of vomit in the clothes.

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