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Finch Holes: Poetry

The Naming of Eve

He calls her sweetheart, honeybear,
whore. He murmurs sugar
and filth. She drips to blush.
How he misses her flesh as his flesh,
when they were one creature
made of dirt and spit.
No name
could call her back
into their shared skin.
In four thousand winters,
she will swell with new earth:
wild, blue, and bloody.

 

Photo By: Quentin Verwaerde

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