1
They ask her
what she’d think
if what she
thought was rock
shook and
rumbled like
hunger, if
what moved inside
the rock was
not its
blood but an
itch on their
tongues. And
where the bones,
what it was
they’d be, refused
its care love
quit its rattle,
while what
blood was in
2
There was a
man it seems,
whispered himself
thru his
fingers, a
cloth between
her legs, the fabric
wet from her
insides, her
ragged crotch, who
when she’d rise
would look him
down, or so
she’d say. And
this man, she says,
walks thru
her house, has
no clothes
on and carries
himself like her
Twin. Walks her
where when it
rains it not only
pours but
appears to be
sun. And burns like
salt the sand
does, and there
does a dance until
the sun cracks
her lips, the
cracks bleed. The
blood cooks,
drought lures
the “witch”
toward where the
bank they stand
on is. They
throw her in,
and that the river
wet her hair
predicted rain.
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