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A POSTCARD FROM ONAN

Dugs gnawed red, the bitch god
comes to me, weary, with her teeth on edge,
her shout like a hard flung barb:
I've got a good suck left
in my left hind tit
she says.
You got your milk teeth yet
little man,
little babyfat boy?

Fuck! How the moon makes me dream,
but I lick my lips and I remember
what it's like to bite the nub of her,
pull at the meat,
draw down the milk
and come so hard I feel it in my throat.

She shakes me off and licks herself
alight — a furnace flicker in her eye
burns down the length of me.
Wet on my belly, backward,
readable by mirror and moonlight
she's written with spittle and her tongue,
Swallow boy.
It is your own.

      — Scott Murphy