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KAREN KOVACIK
DROUGHT
After the grass burned, after our great
lake lost three feet, after the dust
made your eyelids swell and we played
a tape of the tide rolling in
to remind us, after the blood soaked
through towel, sheet and mattress,
after it slipped from me five
months too early and I returned
from the clinic, sanitized
and sore, after you licked the gash between my legs
like a mammal grooming his dead young, after the hair
prickled up on my belly and I tethered your long face
in my thighs so as not to
lose it too, only then the water
came, your lips on my lips, my hands
in your hair, death
and the banishment of death, wave
after wave.
* * *
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