It Takes One to Kill OneQiana Towns
The underbelly of sleep falls on him just after they make love the old fashion way, in a spare bedroom (to alter the scene) on an alternate dingy mattress, sinking from the weight of white horse, his arm still stretched and bound with rubber cord, pointing toward curtainless windows cracked just above a proselytizing Mormon wiping pigeon dong from his bike helmet’s crevices with a kerchief presented by his bride at a spring temple wedding where he stood near the altar with the same lust that dogged him on group dates and at parties in the outfields; at nineteen he’d accepted his mission and arrived at Vietnam prepared to love the little children as Jesus had; but he longed for flesh and for home and had fallen asleep in a field of jacinthe flowers enough times to leave scars along the tracks of his veins festering.
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