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{{ This unpromised afterlife.
What cannot be printed does not mean it cannot be spoken. Into literary triangles. So: here I am shouting }} Sometimes the woman is you. Sometimes the woman disappears slowly, over time, like satin slips like hair ties. Sometimes the woman is the melodies of Diana Ross that you mistake for maternal reassurance. Sometimes the utterance breaks down, or you will it down. Sentences trail. I listen to a clip on repeat to determine the worth of a sentence. Sometimes her worth is condensed to the size of: “You are dumb.” “You’re welcome slut.” Manners matter. She lunges after approval. In the dream crawling on all eights Lou mutters your name, your light touch.
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