The way the tits of lemon meringue whorled

in the window that day
looked at first like breasts, then more like paws of my grandfather’s

clubfoot Siamese.
I want to believe that, after he died, the cat didn’t

gnaw off his face . . .

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The sycamore mark on her inner thigh is a continent
about to divide itself into the angel
that sat in the votive light

of a fourteen-year-old’s cigarette, and the angel
that was never there . . .

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