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I’m not kidding.

I told my friends:

This birthday I want no cake,

no books spread on my lap like eagles.


I want the operation;

that velvet blade,

that feather that dips and cuts.


I want to love

with sparking gelatin cubes in my head,


like lovers waiting

for the final dip and rub.


I want the operation.

I want to dip and rub

without seeing eyes

like cats under cars.

Without hearing voices

like the small smack of fish lips,

saying, I want to cry, but it’s been so long.


No joke.

I want the operation.

I want an even tan,

and a wetness like pinesap between my legs, forever.

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