Jess Bowe

Brown honey eyes look back

to my own, every night, at night:

Something to expect from a bee

charmer. Long lashes like feather

on masquerade masks without

glitter and shine, jump to the bones

of your thick skinned cheeks.

I love when those feathers

skim the apples on my face.

Your beaten hands and senseless

palms that touch the silk in mine

are not Beautiful, but are unmatched

to your untouched counterpart.

Your crumpled jeans, inside-out

on my floor, near the bed, pour

out dirt when I lift them

at the loops. They’re unlike the soul

under the denim that emits porcelain

shells and fragile marble and stone.

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