Spring 2000 • Vol. XXII No. 2 New Voices |

Homogeny

There are light and milk and worship on us all, which is why I don't mind if she's spotted. Hills are just plains that rose in disobedience, how long can you hold your anger, blanched with latent purity, bowed back down, the way breasts ask forgiveness of the body for being supernatant, cowering, when all the mouths are done. Twins are the way love fell through me twice, so I fix them to her udder like slow-chewing fire. Which is why I don't mind. Go, if you're furious with women. Go and do some rising. Milk is the proof that what we disturb in turn disturbs beautifully, clearing the moon like a ruminant martyr.

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