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Cold Mother

The darkness of regret

She sits alone in the turgid
darkness, her swollen breasts
full as a gourd, empty as
sin; missing his boneless

gums. She weeps, but no tears
come; she is dry as tumble-weed. Her
belly opens like a Venus fly-trap to
capture one of those wrinkled little

bodies, but there is no going
back. The darkness has taken
him.
The mirror throws back a cowering

dwarf, leering and grim. Her face peeks
timidly from behind his
hump. She can think of
nothing to say; only, like Anne Boleyn,

she offers him a coin; and her
belated forgiveness.

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