Sunday, June 13, 2010


 by Morgan Atwood

Rich with lust and old smoke
her mouth tasted like his grandfathers tobacco
the dry cut plug, twenty years after his death
that'd been hard and dark in the young boys mouth
He rose against her, a tide of everything disgusting
rushing against her shores of fleshy acceptance
In him she tasted nothing, no guilt and no memory
and that was forgiveness
He moved loosely within her, as he never had in the world
here he was small and unhurried
For his money she would wash him of his sins of history
and importance
She would do everything
and never remember his taste 

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