the black palms sway

by Gina Manola

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and

receipts pile up in a bowl on your nightstand

 

and

the tiger rug by your bed says “i’m wounded, but i’m grrreat!”

 

and

your paisley eyes nest into mine

 

and

you lay eggs in my wound like an African Tumbu Fly

 

and

you pull my hair wringing every last drop

 

and

while you wash up i collect the errant strands

 

and

sprinkle them around your apartment like tinsel