The Mystic’s Dance

Daffni Gingerich


See their faces when they read the write history. The clench the open and the show of teeth. Some squint in thought caring less of what people assume is confusion. I hear the flip and the moan waiting for they to reach the front of their skulls. It’s not an echo, their ideas, it’s a whooshing like the wind under water. The gurgle that never quite spews. I want their bodies and their minds. Though both will fade I have right now the clasp and the wring of everything they’re made of. The voices the crack beneath the pleasure she spit into their bellies. The place where stars die and are reborn theys.

The omnipotent she blooms with or without me staring into the abyss. acrid and webbed

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