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?
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