XII.

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The moon is missing from me,its mother-like croontrembling upon my ocotillospine and soothing the coastline of my torso

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The moon is missing from me,
its mother-like croon
trembling upon my ocotillo
spine and soothing
the coastline of my torso.


I long, I long evermore
for the moon to sew
in into the sin of my coral
lips a rich reassurance
of who I am amongst sea.


I glimpse on a black field
of lilies with my bleak spine
shielding the gilded sea.
Where are you—to whom
the wistful scent of spring plums clings?


Announce yourself to me
upon ivory lingerie
adorning my foreign skin.
Let me unbutton your shirt,
uncurl your wings at long last.


The moon is missing from me,
and in cooling bleakness
I grieve over the loss
of myself, contemplating where
he, my lying love, entombed me.


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