Frances Horovitz

Bush after bush under the flaming sun,
with bloodied ankles, hands,
faces slashed,
feet slithering on the parched grass
we plunge on;
mouths cram with ripeness.

Always the furthest tempts us
hanging heavy, many-breasted;
seduces beyond caution, balance,
into a barbed embrace
tearing, staining our white flesh;
a commingling of juices,
little dark gods to grapple us.

Such shining blackness sucked from the dry earth.
All else withers, dies.
The harsh sun mocked,
their ichor swells,
is crushed, spills, flows.


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