a poem i wrote with glen phillips on repeat and


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A warm brown ball.  A biscuit.  A bread.  Its crusty force-field holding in its heat and soft. The threat of the break of it and the release of its sweet-tacit smell—full of mothers’ kitchen makings, their hobby love, their gift of sustenance and care—reigning so close you smell it anyway. Without the break. I’m hiding inside that roll. I am one with its pockets and steam. My fibers, its.  I wait for your teeth. Your wet, disgusting mouth.

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