She sings through my mouth,
and my mouth is a brackish lake
teeming with the lust of the tropics.

Only this time, I’m catastrophic,
my tics have taken on
the token qualities of a smoking gun.

One day shouting over another’s hair.
It’s fulfilling to care. It’s a travesty,
but it’s the air breathed through light.

Not her fight, but mine, or
the spine of a snail. I am not my ailments,
nor are my ailments pride.

-r. miller

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