Eve

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IRA WOMEN

Morning strands of feathery dust somersault
past vacant windows; gift-wrapped light rolls
her pretty cow eyes, dreams about kissing

in a snow storm. Twilight tricked her years, taught
her to box words so thoughts could not shake
free and with spiderleg fingers scramble

down her low back, past blonde dimples
to her crescent. Her worst orgasm

will accidentally dawn in the hesitation
of a doubtless mind. Her face, a small
potato, will squint against sunrise. She

will mistake nights for coffee, dirty her knees
carving snakes into the homely, fat earth.

Seltzer Magazine, 2012

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