By Nancy Lynée Woo

No longer are you the invigorate
or the titillate
of my exalt

I must do the dump of the dishwater
and remove the cherish
from my nightstand

clean out your linger and your sulk,
scrub down your rouse and chafe.

Deep hold of hesitate.

The dreams grow thicker
with my linger
though like every sour savor

I wake with tongue heavy,
pockmarked.

How can I get out from underneath
your elevate?

Haughty sticks around a fire,
I throw it all into the languish.

Is it my mind, my misguided
arteries pumping or my swollen skin
that needs you

to narrate how my cells squirm?
Does my heart exist in my body
or yours?

Underground of the resist, I follow
the ethered string that links us
to the crevice where I keep my agonize –

it is hard and yellow, and
smells of sulfur, a deep recess where
nothing but slime is born,
but I remember.

I remember when I thought
surrender would be a palace.

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