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PORTRAIT OF ANONYMITY<br />
Henry W. Leung<br />
ISSUE 15 | SPRING 2013<br />
My ex and her one-night love are drowning.<br />
They see my campfire’s beacon, the keyhole<br />
for the setting sun, and they re-emerge<br />
as Persephone did from Hades: bereft, delighted<br />
by that tempered, accidental bloom, desire.<br />
In his arms she flails and squeals—<br />
they approach me as one shadow united<br />
against itself, falling apart. Wet sand catches<br />
the imprint of their hard hips, their spent skin.<br />
They’re unaccustomed to this, this air’s<br />
gauze, this bandaging to earth;<br />
their wings have no room for waking.<br />
What did they see when they were down?<br />
The slippers of a tired God losing weight.<br />
A pillar in our bodies, folding the light.<br />
Dusk curls from their tide like dark pollen,<br />
so they suck the flesh from my steaks<br />
while they’re still hot. I roll the bones.<br />
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