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Cati Porter

Here is the dark-hearted cave, the blood-bloom of a kiss on your ear.
I have swallowed your tongue to taste what sweetness is not.

Here is a stuttering hand, a lapsed thrill that you are leaking onto, and out of.
In this there is no room for a key, but a lake likes the swim of you, the fin.

The cliffs loom like cherry-licked ice, melting into the vertical and smiling.
Clear and sharpening its claws. You have no bones that lift your skin,

no bone-hangers on which to drag your dress around. Flip the switch
and the heart bleats like a lighted skull, like a sheep you have

fitted with a luminescent flare. It burns and the scene whistles steam.
It runs and leaps and little sweaters march single file on command

but not to warm you. To warn you: I say, Look out for the falling lamb.
To pickle you I must spell the word “backwards” three times, climb

the ladder to unlatch the trunk. Here is your bloodless berry.

Cati Porter

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