She Writes in Lemon Juice
She bathes in baptismal muslin,
soaked bone-brown and wrapped
in twice-blessed river water,
once for the pain she ran from
once for the pain we caused.
"I'll shave my head," she begs,
"and weave a shroud to warm you."
When her face breaks through
the dunked-brown river water
she spits out a wren,
hoping for a raven, but a wren will do.
"We'll both be better off," she says,
a threat I take to heart.
Every timid stalking voiceless
after midnight call,
quick breath on the line,
I know it's you.
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