Non-Erotic PoetryPersian Rug, SpinningWater seeps into the roll, duct tape
waisting my middle, as the body spins
us down against seaweed and other men's
dropped burdens. The dead girl twirls
inside my sleeve of fine knots, spiraling pod
to the dark feet first, bare and pale and stiffening
below a rising breath of petals.
survivor poem, P.O.V. Persian Rug
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