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Deborah Ager

            fear of itching or the insects that cause itching

If I could hear it now, I could dream of it — a hurly-burly bug
Gone mad against the gauzy curtain. Rain on a tin roof;
Lightning became a fear to leave unnamed.
The day fomented torment, and something whispered elegies
Before the bath waters parted their oatmeal waves
And allowed a leg of squealing welts inside the healing wet.
Love condensed itself to a misted fist. Kisses hurt.
Circling bites bloomed in hellfire, blazed to the inner
Lung, to skin that wept the poison outward.

Deborah Ager

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