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By Sophia Morales

The morning breath cools lips,
cupping my tears,
sweeping saliva
from the corners of my mouth.

Pinkish water colored,
the sunrise roars,
accepting prayer
from palms of human beacons.

Today the Temple will burn,
joining the Man
in afterlife,
a cathartic ascension.

Tomorrow I must assess,
pickpocket
my own psyche,
throw the anchor overboard.

To whom do I owe this shock,
where do I send
a thank you card,
the bill for dry cleaning my soul?

I get it now, drive till dark,
pussyfoot no more:
over under
weave each moonlit flesh blade.

I was told there’d be fate.
I was met with menace.

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