Later you explained the tug in your left side
using diagrams of divided womanhood,

unpacking pamphlets of pink chalices
with lowered fallopian horns.

The flesh, it transpired,
didn’t resemble an apple core.

Nor did white flecks flare
like malign constellations.

But when he touched the loop
to your mutable field,

it set you aflame.
State the fact:

your body was fixed
by knotted lightning.

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