If Venus were the moon
your voice would still
smell like gunpowder
so
I take in the rhythm
of you
as we free the cries
of the buried
sex trade partisans
from our
ancestral bloodlines
your wounds
spill blood
bees and honey
and it still
haunts me
This poem originally appeared in Locust Review 9 print edition. Social media splash image by Omnia Sol. Locust Review 9 cover by Adam Ray Adkins.
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