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Examining Infidelity in the Anglo-Saxon-Primitivist Tradition

His: exotic symbols. Like, you can’t imagine. a plantain.

a breathing concerto guava. Blood persimmon.

sticky—sweet and sweet. His was like that. His—

did I mention?

The way his juiced the life out of me? The way his

felt while all else gave way?

Put another way, his was et tu brut? His made me

a Lilith, or siren to push he under agua. His fixed me

a Diana totem, laureled with a ripe ossein crown. We together,

we cracked clavicles, scapulas, pubis, and ulna in the basin. We licked bone meat,

salty marrow. We together were ripening in the red sun

and I was asphyxiation at that point in the rites

where I lose all feeling everywhere.

Was I his, or he’s?

Suddenly, it all sticks. Him. He. Scapula. Bare chest. Me. What

was his was his metaphysics all on my lips. It was

basically a confession—meant to purify the breath, said him.

Bite mint leaves, said me.

More than hands. Feet. Wrists. Knees, was what his wanted.

I try to calculate. A cup of water fills. Losing all over again