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January 30, 2009 by · 1 comment

Joy Ladin

Photo: katietegtmeyer

You wipe the woman off your face.
She comes away

In ochre smears. Traces cling
To your lids and lips. You wipe

Again, with something stronger,
You burn her off your skin,

Eradicate every expression
You and she have shared.

She drips down your chin, a drop
The color of her skin

Flees along the tendons of your neck.
What does she hope for? Where can she hide?

Where will you let her rest?

Categories: Frontpage · poetry


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