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  • Lena Drake


Updated: Nov 8, 2022

Curled fingers as the sky

goes down; the time it takes

for the room to go black

is as constant as the beats

between bellied breaths.

Expanding into

what they call potential

form takes charge of her

until she is but shape.

The vastness of her legs and stomach

belong to a higher power.

She is not owner, but vessel of

figure; supplying their demand.

Shame blossoms with

an inward gaze. Who does she blame

when the enemy is the body

that walks her towards war?

When the body's changed

so many hands,

and if the eyes were hands,

even more still.

How to celebrate the fruit

of a labor we were drafted to do?

The skin's gone soft and

the core's gone cold,

but if you can put

one foot in front of the other

they'll still call you

ready for the picking.

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