Friday, December 17, 2010

St. Begga

legends are wrapped in foil

and waiting in the fridge.

leftovers from last night’s party.

this all started with a wink,

a story that ran from your grasp,

wound its way around all of our hips.

the vines kept climbing

toward the bedroom window,

so I cut them with a butterknife.

they dangled from the sill

like a torn hem of a curtain,

like your shirt over

the tops of your thighs.

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