you become a bomb of rage ready to 

explode on the shadow 

that touches the tits of your sister’s innocence. what happens to the girl whose households are flowers in necropolis? 

I wake up every forenoon

to an opened old window greeting my breasts or the express road leading to the country in my body.  I rise from the bed as an art

of what he calls chagrin.  he grows into a dog into barks.   and I run into my bone marrow,

and the window closes.


the mirror has a way of saying that I have no chest.    and the daughter always says that I am not a riped moon yet

and that when the time comes

we will glow together in this sky of adulthood.

she is not aware of the war going on in her body and that her father is pointing a gun of lust at me.



I’m afraid of the broken whole

I might become at sunrise

I look up to god at night before I sleep 

I open his body and walk into it

hoping that what fate will keep 

on bed tomorrow

won’t be the portrait of a defiled moon. 

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