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Ruminating on the generosity of being consumed and the mercy of being forgotten.

By Destiny Perkins

Graphic By Mia Overbo

If I could be a song wrung from your fingers,

play me slowly so that I may decay

in the effulgence of your touch.

I have knelt before my Father

and promised a pious inner sanctum

but this tender chasm is your beckon.

In this turbid pit, your name is subsumed.

Your lascivious kiss broods in my walls,

I rebuke you, parasite.

If we are meant to die, I will bury you

in luminescent pleasure. I will binge

the propitiatory bodies of our children.

I will kiss your shadow and seal

the entrance of our brief cavern.

When the sun jewels your sapphire body,

when I am coaxed from memory

as the wind baptizes your sea glass wings,

let my mercy follow you into the chapel.

Before I am splayed before God

and emptied into heaven,

I will die a virgin.


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