Blackbirdan online journal of literature and the artsSpring 2012 v11n1
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If I held out the candle, paraffin burning for him,
then swallowed all the light, if

in the dark, I was a cobra’s tongue,
            how could it have been his fault?

Robber baron, unzipped vagabond, he mistook me
for the comfort of a small creek, water crawling along the backs
of rocks, emerald house beside it,

me at the door in nothing
but welcome.

Over wine, I warned him
soft—you can’t sleep here; you won’t
wake up.

In the snuffed room, my touch         serrated
bit of tooth

or switchblade.

Even a peacock feather comes to a point.

He thought
I was kissing him.    

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