A Woman is but the Land beside the River


A woman is but the land beside the river
Flowing into the original sins of the fluids.
Her throat, the curve over the valley,
a steaming volcano from the fresh wraths of a love, lost.

 
The cultivable land
The axe
The seeds
The sprout.
The summers of her man
As a distant canvas.

No lizards cross the wall
Nor do snakes, on the road
Only frozen pole stars,
Waiting for the womb,
The red earth
beneath the grave of fireflies.

 

 

 

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