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Some part of me is smooth
as a polished stone,
copper-canyon-burnished,
washed clean.
Some part of me is brutal,
ravaging,
crocodile's teeth,
sharp and uneven,
covered with blood.
Some part of me is soft as a new-born mouse,
transparent skin,
heart and guts visible inside,
crushable by a squeezing hand or falling apple.
Some part of me is luscious as a ripe fig,
lips dripping nectar
mixed with salt and sweat,
spit and desire.
Some part of me is old and tired,
as a broken race horse,
retired to brood mare
until she drops to the ground
in a heap of bones and skin-bag.
Some part of me is eager to be seen,
clamoring at the windows,
dancing at the edge of conversation
like an impatient child
tugging at sleeves.
Some part of me would rather dig a hole
in the deepest corner
of the darkest closet
at the back of the house,
and hide in a pile of laundry,
damp towels and old socks.
Some part of me quakes in fear
at the sight of the next precipice,
knowing that we will all be soon
jumping off
and flying.
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