Lambs Death and Honey Wine

lambs teeth shoved in pockets
she greets me at the door with sweat soaked pits,
blue buckets of frozen rainwater on her porch,
under a heavy winter’s moon

she tells me we’re making mead over her shoulder,
as she disappears down a darkened corridor
gallons of honey, the whole house smells of raw meat and sweet
this is a lengthy process

she slips across hardwood floors in flowered socks,
dressed in a hand-me-down corduroy skirt, stiff
standing over butcher’s block
we were raised by wolves in sheep’s clothing

Kotex Queens in acid wash jeans,
engagement and wedding rings sat sink side,
because sometimes feeling unowned is the best vacation
naked bodies tangled in white cotton gowns, with menstruation stains at the hem

as the moon sets she pulls lamb’s tooth from pocket
and asks me what i thought they felt just before they died

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