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To Not Take take. We splinter—yoke coursing in my thighs impossibly, inextricably, in- explicable really to not take your flesh in my flesh down, hard. We almost hit him— the man who almost took us—said No but imperatives split: Yes, this is the story of girl: me, raped at fourteen—you. We ran over antlers streaking headlights. Smell of my brakes—you—burning hot scissors on your wrist, shedding. Snake from snake, you said. I cooled your blisters with a cup of water—a lake deep as ocean if you let go of the cliff. You split me infinitely: black flame, scorched skin, muddy-fingered sheets. Your words or mine? Your heat in my thighs? I curl away, slither. I hid. I knelt down. I hit the buck. I did—you didn’t see—I took his antlers, twisted them straight, split his open mouth. The night’s scarred no stays inside until it’s felt— a seed body, buckeye- lashes, clit—words we can’t say—lips twisting—hot-kneed, teeth-gripped.
Return to Index of Poetry by Erika Kulnys
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