poetryScour. Lemonfresh sun disinfects the bed— she washed her thighs until they bled. © Nancy Botta, 2018 Share this:Click to share on Twitter (Opens in new window)Click to share on Facebook (Opens in new window)Like this:Like Loading... Related Standard
There is something about this poem, don’t know what yet, but it hit me. LikeLike July 12, 2018 at 8:41 pm Reply
Rusted Honey 
There is something about this poem, don’t know what yet, but it hit me.
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