You will kiss other women
honeyed-mouthed women, with
pulses like summer thunder and skin
warm as fields lying fallow. But apple-sweet
love fades, and
they will call you cold. You laugh,
already thinking of the first frost, that shard
of mirror she placed on your tongue
(it is lodged somewhere in your throat,
every breath mercuric, poisoned)
the first cold snap finds you barefoot
at the edge of forest. Waiting.
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