Past Lives (poetry)

A black-robed inquisitor, slight of body,
disrobed by his mother often, angry.

A big mouth woman, always open, pronouncing
her lack of cock and balls as blessing upon the dirty,
dark-haired girls who give birth in the street.

A sentient whip that licks chunks of her off its leather,
closes its eyes and rapturous
splits her open from ass to nape,
slashes harder, harder her sweaty inner thighs.

A stake, a torch, a flame, her silence—
the rendered fat, the glistening bone.

The misshapen baby with a port wine stain
who toddles off at night on his rickety legs
to die curled in the blind ivy that overtook her grave.

-M. Ashley

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