The Testicles Of My Imaginary HusbandKim Roberts
Husband, someone packed your groceries poorly; one saddlebag hangs low. I palm it, feel your merchandise move. I like to see you bunch, uneven inside your jeans. Let me rub the cloth, hear you catch your breath. You own the luggage, but I am the tourist here. Let me hold your bags again, wrinkled and hairy, dark and prophetic. I like the way they tighten at my touch: the power of resurrection is at my fingertips.
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