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Pricked by the North star's spur all night our lovelocked bodies urged the heartless muscles on further than they could go until as bleakly blue day broke hand-in-glove we breathless grasped la petite mort--your forked ecstasy, choked cry, my sea urchin, a lost child sobbing for her father. Coming apart, we open our eyes, glazed, evasive, narcotized. Now, as though the lips of the wound cried out for the knife, sharktalk begins . . . Clouded by brute anger we strike for the mark, blindly true, in broil of blood trading cruel hurt for hurt with that bitter charity only intimate strangers show. Each wanting what the other cannot give, on this hard bed, we, unforgiving, lie--live, let live. As you pack for the North country's white-capped peaks, darkly scattered lakes, islanded in nightlight glow I, disconnected, float ... Distantly, I feel the first quavering note & secret surging joy of one about to come into the kingdom of himself, see as by razor gleam suspended in water a body, slowly unraveling crimson ropes, pale shapes circling the edge of sleep. Hissing like dry ice, they whisper all I know & fear & fear to know.
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Author:Asekoff, L.S.
Publication:The American Poetry Review
Date:Jul 1, 1993
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