The Son (Unspoken Crime)

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In my room, more than once heHe at least was solidly there,
spoke of her, and I too —no invention of mine, even if
joking men’s talk. My errorwe fleshed the women from his lips
comes to me like a razor.stinging with symmetry.
How many jokes x desire   True, he
are consensus?paced and turned like Blake’s
 She’s ripesttiger, lived as much by suddenness,
now her man is dead! Can sheaddict of his senses. Such
wear black! away fromwas his attraction: one fire
her breasts when she bends.utterly burning.
Mourning is waste of a woman.  Scarring his own beauty
Her face pale as a thigh.was revenge, profane poetry,
  Even his motheruntil suddenly he could see
after taking my rentmore than his own.
slashed her way through cabbages   As if from Tarot
and onions, her tongueshuffled, flipped up
at this woman’s neck.side by side: her dark-
Is a mother sadringed eyes, a tense figure
to see her son’s grown hungerblack clothes couldn’t hide,
to see the strap on the wall?paleness making her skin
Saying this girl was old enoughnaked. Those eyes unafraid to see
to be his mother! Some womenhim as an equal
in secret crave young hands …in a country where eyes stare
(But did she say that?or flicker. How mourning
Or is it me again?)though of the mind,
The act is done, the womanaccentuates the body.
was real enough.I had seen her, each day
And then police?returning from town, saw
But he said nothing.this bareness, the bare spindle
While still outside her windowhe made her.
he entered  Assault
the dumb space of surrender.as a panacea? He felt
Mother said all she knew,along the thread of
eyes milky with disorder:himself bare as a spindle,
faithher equal her bare
or goodness.fear winding in.
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