To have desire,
torn from my breast
like an eight-armed tumor
restless with all I do not burn,
feels like nothing I want to feel.
Those I cannot put my finger on:
the quivering catch in my throat;
the taste of fresh salt trickling inland
through twin valleys half mine.
When my heart swells
with space or water
and my fingertips tremble,
scarcely able to contain
what I had tried to dampen
or temper I am reminded that this.
This too.
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