Whether it’s the myth of him
Or the peninsula,

Whether he dances across the burning bush flesh-footed
Or with bottle caps taped to his sneakers,

Whether his new girl is Barbie doll breasts
Or corn-stuffed body, red-yarned hair,

All the dolls are watching me tonight–mouths hemmed shut,
Eyes glued wide, as I cut and drain the bird that is my heart.

Candles are lit to remember. Eucalyptus heals.
Grandmother, teach me to forget.

Sit up old woman. Undo your tomb.
Clear the coal and venom from your throat one last time.

To forget him: Gather up your hair.
Divide it into his three most intimate parts:

His fingers longer than Moses’ walking stick.
The indentation in the center of his chest.
His fear of touching jewelry.

Braid these three parts the entire length of your hair.
You know what’s next, ungrateful child. You know.

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