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Twilight, the tremor of stars,
the first buzz
like virus through veins,
breaks through the open window,
summons me by my secret musk-slippered name.
Ears lift, hairs bristle.

Something growls with my tongue
and tastes the tang of blood
under your skin still warm
from love-making.

My nails paw your breasts;
you moan in your sleep.
Would that the moon
were a silver bullet,
but there is no god —
only the howl of flesh slapping
against my tongue.
And I swallow.

      — Arlene Ang