On the other side of the sun-bleached stones,
I hear singing. Softer than the water
but not as soft as the wind, a lullaby
once-forgotten and twice remembered
and then on my tongue twinned, the two forks
like two rivers telling the truth
about just who had the hands
first stained by original sin.
I know who you are. I know the shape of your eyes
and the sharp of your grin, the curve of your hands
finding old pathways
all across my skin.
I miss this melody, this never-known hymn,
but I swore to god I wouldn’t let you come back.
So crawl back to your mud, recede into the swamp;
don’t haunt my new windchimes with your gaunt
and starving face, begging for my mouth or
for my grace.
Mercy's dead, babydoll;
this is my house now.
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