broken and stitched

from many separate, now dead,

pieces. the grotesquery you’ve made

of me. we often               imagine

much worse than reality. yet not

in this instance. the stiches

rub raw and red and infected yet hold. oozing

between branches, sunlight mottles the damp soil and leaves. where

we lie. we talk of movies. gentle frankenstein’s monster. monsters,

you correct, and we laugh.


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