How Many More?

It’s an agony of sorts, passing by trees

Unharvested, sagging under the red load

I had a thought, to pick myself monthly

I had a thing in my head, to be made of wood

A wolf-eyed totem, hard lips a slice of memory

That boy I fucked, up in North Carolina

I stood under live oaks by the bank

In my scarlet dress, and he walked past

When he slid inside he moved through me

A river slowly achieving the delta

Hair hung rivulets against my neck

The sweating breeze in the Spanish moss

The shiver of him emptied and died

A whirlpool opened at the back of his heart

Elle n’est q’un trou

He said within earshot, not knowing me

That I understand more tongues than I speak

That I keep clotted things in kilner jars

That I would one day hack his face

Into a found log and smear it moon by moon

With all the children I will never love

Offerings to the god of one night only

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