she will come quietly

covered in men’s torn ribs,
dithering scripture
and a stomach for hunting down
great ideas in a town
less rich
than this.

she will become the length of the forest,
and the suburb,
and the neighboring decay.
you will not see her threads.
you will not see her eyes.
you will not see her long legs
tucked beneath her abdomen
in the corner.

you will only see what she
catches hovering in their
silk paralysis,
being bled bone dry
by night.

“The Resurrection”

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