I don’t wear my mother’s body.
There’s no use sneaking around

the house, a gingerbread prefab,
forest-scented with frosting snow.

Punch drunk on fairy tales.
Non-ascetics: you & me—

There are two kinds of romantics.
Hungry poets traveling in packs.

Youths high on starry endorphins.
Both strung out, marauding baskets

& snacks. Preying on predators
that never see it coming, quick blurs

of spindle-spun lingerie & perfume
in verse. We go on being voracious.

Hand-fed fantasia, baby doll
& vermouth. There are two kinds

of people: virgins & wolves.
Hearts full of apple choose

poison or the truth. Ah, the bitch
of one bite. The clock might strike.

I leave a trail of crumbs on the way
out. Never the way in.

Photo by –Sam–

Tanya Grae
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