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Cut open the sky and let your hair rain down.

                                                There is power in not knowing

                        when to scream. There is sin

                                    in how softly the sun falls. This isn’t the last

moment for names.                             Tell me yours

            after the wind dies

                                    down, when our footsteps will echo

            over dirt roads.                                    Tell the bastards

not to stare before skinny-dipping in the mud

                        we’ll bask our breasts in. And when they lick

            their lips, use only the bones

                        between           your toes to speak. Now, answer

                                    me: how does a body secede

            from itself? How does summer

                                    slip to hate? This isn’t            what you want

but it is what you will rehearse,

                                                again and again,

                        until the stain leaves

your scalp. Carry it on a stone

                                                            to skip. Keep it tucked

                                    between your legs. I’ll call you

                        when it’s time to sink.