a woman moves through dog rose and juniper bushes, a pussy clean and folded between her legs, breasts like the tips of her festive shoes shine silently in her heavy armoire. one black bird, one cow, one horse. the sea beats against the wall of the waterless. she walks to a phone booth that waits a fair
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A yoke of honey in a glass of cooling milk. Bats playful like butterflies on power lines. In all your stories blood hangs like braids of drying onions. Our village is so small, it doesn’t have its own graveyard. Our souls, are sapped in sour water of the bogs. Men die in wars, their bodies their graves. And women burn in fire. When midsummer brings thunderstorms, we cannot sleep because our house is a wooden sieve, and crescent lightning cut off our hair. The bogs ablaze, we sit all night in fear. I always thought that your old trophy Singer would hurry us away on its arched back. I thought we’d hold on to its mane of threads from loosened spools along Arabic spine, same threads that were sown into my skirts, my underthings, first bras. What smell came from those threads you had so long, sown in, pulled out, sown back into the clothes that held together men who’d fall apart undressed. Same threads between my legs! I lash them, and the Singer gallops! And sky hangs only the lightning’s thread. Like in that poem: on Berlin’s Jaegerstrasse Arian whores are wearing shirts ripped off sliced chests of our girls. My Singer-Horsey, why everything has to be like that poem?