Poison and rage carve cursive

onto these pages in her closet.

Where will these stones lead her

if she keeps them in her pocket?

She lockets shed tears

because she flirted with fate,

promised quotations of

Poindexter and Hemingway.

Instead she remembers

Sexton and Blake,

waters her poisoness tree

and waits.

A tarnished survivor of his flames,

haunted ritually,

but never ashamed.

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