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Poem #21

Autotomy

I’m passions paled away ashy, waiting  for a word to flutter, hinging on this  fingernail, and that one scratching  out phrases in Sanskrit––working out  how to form all the words again after  punishment removed my hands, tongue,  frontal lobe. My saving grace is singular:  lizard skin ready to repair trauma left  in the wake of much needed mutilation.

bam

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