you know I’m dense.
ice cold, flush with
forked tongue ready to
puncture someone.

  i’m lush;
maintaining a sense of
dam and containment
even in my most berating
fits of temper or panic,
I manage to remain
frozen these days
like a cracking lake.
you say I am
sharp and
bitter.

but underneath my skin,
that blue-lace casing,
a carnise river:
little tributaries to
the turning of the world
in linear order.
delivery is bitter.
and you say
casually, so
full of rage. 

“the doe”

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