The Wif and the Weapon
The First Woman grabbed the First Daughterfresh on the chin, just moisturized,spectator and the object,red nails on skin reddened and blade puckered,and there did she say,“Do you think you’re a man?” This is what I know. Scattered not like stars across a canvasdipped in brown paint by the handof the sun—more freckle-brown thanpale, where heat has burned the hairswhich curl
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