BY LILIANNA SERBICKI
Swollen, a dream on its way to fruition;
Nothing romantic. Lense (soft-focus) gone.
Real fruit bruises; a real fruit stays the motion
We make ourselves. Our unkempt pieces drawn
Into alignment; some beings are too real
To smudge with soft words. Some beings delight
In waking up the small pith in the chest
With beating limbs. It is a sudden sleight
Of soul, not hand; the itch will soon persuade
Myself to love my stippled skin far more
Than when it held just me. I am arrayed
In bright humanity -- naked and sore,
A simple breath moves, joyous in its leisure,
Fearless and proud of every fleshly measure.
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