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From Not Made of Glass

Lace grows in her eyes like
fat wedding,
she is pretty, has been baking


bisquits of linen to stuff into his mouth
all her life,


waiting for him. The hallways
under her skin are thick with dreamchildren.


Who he is hardly matters, her rooms
stay for him,


her body crying to be taken
with rings and furniture, tight behind doors


in a wave of green breath and wild rhythm,
in a bed of
lost birds and feathers,


smiling, dying