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softness

by Marina Dawn

I walk slowly toward the mouth of it
knowing behind the dim teeth, wind,
winter opening
the season brutal and holding
its fist silent against my heart.
I travel to the anus, to the small wound
at the navel, to its eyes like wet dough
in the skull. Anywhere I can enter it, I go
like a maggot licking the last warmth
from the inside of a dead body, insisting
that the cure for the heart
is in the insistence of the cure.
Insisting that at the center of winter
lurks winter's own deep heat.

11/15/2005

Posted on 11/16/2005
Copyright © 2024 Marina Dawn

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