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in praise of my happy trail

my body is a hungry maw, bearskin
wired along the mound streaming to coarse
red and thick as my blood. overeager
swim upstream, dark—nearly black—on stark
pale, it is a beast within the flesh machine.

these hairs travail happy with each roll
on a stomach stretched with desire:
thick red strands coating over silicone
and watery lube, hooded nerves tender.
move with me as blood does my gut.

these hairs spring from aching blisters,
forged from cheap silver, sown by foam.
stop killing me, they cry, only the deserving,
kind and true-faced should meet me.
kiss me here, kiss me there, kiss me all low

notches of living and survival. this trail
is woman-made as much as my beard—
clean-shaven and skin puckered sweet.
these hairs cradle, these hairs breathe,
these hairs heal in their capacity to be.

these hairs will feed.

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