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Editor’s Note: This poem by Andrea Jurjevic is being presented as part of our special focus on poetry during #PoetryMonth in April. Please read our introduction to the series.

People are disappointingly human under the clothes they wear, but in
here, my sweet fickle angel, tricked by the side-casting moonlight

your shoulders turn to feathers rising through the indoor air. This
milky light, like latex leaking from opium fruit, pours across your face,

marks your pale chest. The arch of your instep, the hollows on either
side of your taut ass, the angle at which your arms meet elbows

are now just part man. Your locks, sweaty and smelling of metal, toss
and flash like moonhandled fish plunging through rapids.

Inexcusable, really, the voltage in the mud-spatter of your eyes as you
dive down, away from reason, ram into the barren valley of my bones.

Poem originally appeared in “Sixfold.” Used with permission from the author

Poem by Andrea Jurjevic, from “Small Crimes” published by Anhinga Press

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