Freesia McKee: Io’s Arms

That one bag night, he led me by my wrists          As if I couldn’t walk
I was so quiet          I don’t remember speaking          in the grass
he told me, unprovoked,          about          what he wanted: unoriginal things

what he liked to eat, his mother, his chest, what he didn’t know of his father

stories about shapes          the light          made         I was so quiet, then

 



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