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She has hands in the grass
and dripping with oil
that men always want to make,
floating maturity, where is her
mother that she sees when the
uninvented star swipe
holds her close? He has olives
in his mouth, the gods lapping up
applause. He knows the
secrets of ashes, yellow coming
to free her, fathers tasting orange.
How come dreams don’t help her?
When do colours come?
Why do one and one make blood?
Strands pouring over
sweet children, unborn laughing,
fire in her throat, fair skin, blue
uncles want to hold hard.
Why does one plus two equal
black?
Why does black plus black
equal rain?
Why does rain fill her
mouth?
He holds her hand with his
cheek.
Why does mouth plus mouth
equal taste?

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