Stop at Sir

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Why is it my words tighten like a Jane Eyre bodice
"quite well" and "if it pleases you" and I stop myself at "Sir"
trick switch time tables are turned
we stall,
coast, find ourselves lost
in another century but truth is
Sir, we are the story of man
driven by sweat gland signals
and deep musk messages trapped in our natural fibers
that grow safe from the razor's blade.

We paint with mudsticks and charcoal
sketch out our dust and demons with mask and cinder
fireside, proud of that which marks us clearly
proud of the blur where our bodies touch.

On knees I breathe in the story your day's labor
from behind metal teeth, unzipped
I breathe messages contained
behind cotton, your fibers coarse upon my cheek.

We exchange saline secrets from spaces
in between.
Fingers to lips,
we promise just this:
to never anoint one another with oils
other than those of our own making
face up, gladly receiving
what was always meant to be delivered.

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