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My Husband
he tells me to kiss his eyelashes
walk him around the rooms
We’re ghost detectives, he says
he puppies his head into space
beside my breasts, his face
mocha turns white - coffee
is what I need now and a cigarette
the pulse of sickness like love
quivers in unreason
is not like death
it’s up to me
to soothe his Abilify-soaked sightings
until he sleeps in my fresh vat of cream
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