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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

when him messaged me the full report of we. It wasn’t internet porn.

Maybe dried up folklore of bodies no one believes in. Or,

some indulgence we sell some day to others?

I make plans already.

It with the fresh clean passes glowing hands. His

no longer, when it was out for all to see.

Me, his anthropologist of 1863—

finding reversals and traces left everywhere on savage supraorbitals,

it all started that one time at that party,

when his threw up from the third flight of stairs

everything in his was all over the streets below. It missed cranias.

I wandered away to be on my own, dancing, reveling, ritual-casting,

whispering tales of old times. Later, I took his drunk ass home and then

and then—was I his? I say too much.

Centuries later: I lay out lazy strokes on the inside

of he’s thigh. I create softer submissions and chants in ears.

After all, we all three ménage a trois insufferably.

Then, some dark magic—I inspect the damage.


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