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Celibacy 1

Unmarried, the heart ejaculates

what it must, scarlet-purled, arterial,

away, away. Or conversely, married,

it requires all—venous, freighted with waste.

Fuck the heart. On the radio,

driving home, I learn the Brits

are into all things Scandinavian.

Sunlit schools, bare breasts, the Aurora Borealis.

A “scandi trance.” Maybe. Ice is a mystery

of whatever blue enchantment swiped

my view this morning. This is no allegory.

I’m north of myself these days

with a fist full of silver keys

I lose every night in my dreams.

from OrexiaFind it in the library

Copyright © Persea Books 2017
Used with the permission of The Permissions Company, Inc.
on behalf of Persea Books.

Published in Lisa Russ Spaar Poems

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