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She returned from there
(there, summery era tasting of light
rays on living room floors and dust)
With susurrations of the heart and

She began speaking in tongues,
Pig Latin, archaic and esoteric, yet crude
un-erudite, child’s play, English blibbers,
“I am a spider,” she said, stretching thin

Daddy long, but only deux
A lacking bundle of wheat attached
to a dot of a torso, nonexistent bosom
signifying short-lived shirt-less shame

Than human mine. She was
spider-like, fingers webbed thickly
capturing ions, pinching follicles,
threaded perspectives, senses

Like tripwires clinging to
her nails. Amazed, I figure silhouettes
of my past, lives singing sound checks
and echoing afterthoughts to hear

Somewhere in my curled
toes, buoyant feet, child’s play pose
every mourn and natural eve, wound
licking, wound pouncing, naps and more

Due to some fear of reality
and hateful superiority. “I am a cat,”
I said, rubbing my cheek raw red as
black fur sprouted and tail flicked

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