Among the laundrybones
we root a pink-day
out like a hidden-kitten
wrapped warm in our smells.
We hold it to our ears
hearing in it like a conch
the ocean-sound of our love
cleaning its own fish
of scales into ladders
we flesh over our heads,
making tents of each other's body
to keep the cleansing rain
from washing our love up to shore,
dressed dead in its Sunday best.
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