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Improv 2, Week 10

"What she could do…”

When I cut
my blade was hardly red—
so little blood was in him.
Less spill than suck,
his wound worked like a mouth,
and mouth and would alike drank
what I fed him,
my husband’s father,
eyes fluttering like an infant’s,
until I saw in them
the sated look that women
mistake for gratitude,
and saw too, beneath my hands,
a lustrous black returning to his beard,
a pleasing heft to thigh and shoulder.
What happened next
was strictly clientele—I’d always
been, as they say, in business,
exchanging life for life.
When Jason turned
us out to wed another,
it took no art of mine to kill
our sons. I’d loved
the magic for how it loved him.
I loved the anger for how it did not.

------------------------

Bluest Eyes

When I desired
the bluest eyes possible
I didn’t mean to offend.
minus pain, then tears
and I was good to go;
I sorta look like the blonde
on your bread, the blonde
in your nightstand, but the
mucus in my hair, loose tear duct,
and newfound astigmatism defile
the beauty we were creating,
me and this man I can only
remember as the murky form of
a man. I only want bluest eyes
because I was born with browns,
because I am full of you know what,
have recognized shit since I was five
because my eyes aren’t blue. I am
not full of ocean. When this man
offered me blues I expected a
pluck and pop, a switcharoo.

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