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Mar 292015
 

by Micheal McConnell

 

Some menopaused fear dismantled

my dreams of Athena with all

 

of Greece between her thighs,

her period blood dry beneath

my fingernails, yet I feast

 

on ankle meat, the ethereal

fireflies circumcscribing your

little girl cresents, where small

 

blue and yellow flowers colonize

the margins. May I kiss all

 

ripe parts until your teeth chatter

and morning forgets its name—

 

as our imaginations weep

children to life, our garlic tongues

tracing hearts against each other—

 

and fold you backwards, pulsing,

logarithmically, buried deeply?