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freckles, freckles toil
and trouble, fire burns to ground,
needle the rubble
Her spectacle that I can watch because I am not her daughter, she is not ever, remember, burdening me.
She carries me across.
This witch is a woman, a mother, and sometimes a bitch.
I am the witch’s assistant.
The difference between breasts and udders is history of art and martyrs; she fights so much smarter than that.
Woman with an itch.
Her breasts were the familiar beauty of Thursdays.
I know her by these four names: guardian angel, hedgehog, toluene (which is known as methylbenzene now), witch.
Simply distill to get oil of cloves.
She told me recipes, spells, total syntheses of hexaphenylbenzene.
Once upon a time, witches were just the teachers of women, not their mothers.
The freckles that covered the round of her breasts like vinca alkaloids.
The big hills shriveled with so much mining.
They feel like boiling stones.
Call them Marilyns or cupcakes, they are full of carbon and holes.
Written on the soil.
Why is the measure of love the loss of cairns and soil samples?
She draws on her body circles of ball point pen, marking rash and reaction.
She would gladly again, calculate the percentage of fluid in her lungs to the last significant figure as she was drowning.
October poem
Julia Rose Lewis