she is heavenly, the weaver girl.
celestial red robes, then bathing naked.
i know you have to steal her clothes.
after years of aligning stars on thighs
and two supine new lives
she must leave, and I can die.
crying, you will pry me open,
peel the years off with my skin
and in my yolk hide your children.
her mother will come with the gale
stormily pull out her hairpin
and quivering, quill
a separating silver river.
now only annually family by
a pyre of tired pied magpies
melons have the heart to carve
glints of glisten from lovers eyes.
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