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Joanna C. Valente ~ Four Poems • Bareknuckle Poet
My Vagina Will Be the Death of Me In the morning a storm like breath dimming in dread, twists like silver around fingers, a bit too tight so it leaves a mark, almost stops blood but faintly quivers back– larger like smoke from a house fire–blacker–heavier like colonial brick. Part of surviving is to keep more »