nothing has dulled, not even with time.
you walk through the house and are stained
like the window your tongue white,
heavy with the tasteless body.
in the big room there was velvet
and you got what you wanted.
what you wanted, this: theresa,
a name to stack with the others.
picked in the sap of summer
as in a, theresa, rubber of the damned.
theresa who said the suffering was holy
in the pocket of your head, unknowing
standing water in the font could be drunk.
that past the wooden brush of death,
in dark hallways, like perfume, death stiffened robes
hung in closets like many fathers. many men.
past men, theresa, your clear-eyed past.
shame lolled heavy under you like pudding.
your lips on the lips of the chalice, wet.
how could you have known?
the way you could have shattered
the quiet of that room.
that no fish
could have swallowed you and itself survived.
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