Gift of Lace and Animalistic Desire By Bella Koschalk
Sorrow So the post-contact dog doesn’t die from what kills it. So Medusa is my grandfather holding a chess piece to my head, trying to bridge the gap. So the nurse said where was the damage done and I said in the bedroom but I misunderstood the question so I point to my own dipping softness— damage? So I cut the cake and hit baby Jesus’s jugular, and I wonder what kind of violence is really holy. So I see the holes in the lace, so many you’d guess beauty is just about the lack.
Longing Sex to be: I am a waxen anatomical venus and she (my “lover”) has a stomach of steel. (not the kind my father would examine for architectural integrity— No, Just the brute strength she’ll need to keep me wax.) Sex to be: Mars mistaken for her scalpel.
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