Mildew is the basement’s skin.
Damp socks, pork rinds, Gunsmoke
marathonning. The mold is a forest, perhaps—I pin
an oak to my throat, the folk-
lore mysterious like the ocean. What’s venom
to a desperate loanshark? Cartilage/enamel/
cocoon, we are entombed…damn us, denim
us, force us to the dunes. We trade a camel
for a caramel, for fountain gun
confections, for a song. I left with a tattoo,
a return address on my neck, the orphanage, a nun,
A heavenly lady/place and a fondue
farewell, dripped across the sweets, the fruits, the vegetables; A fetish
abandoned like my mother, the sister: "hell ahead, red as rainbow."
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