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  • At one point in your tender years you were flattered
    when boys said you were

    but the one who comes toward you now
    looking directly at you
    has brought down carnivores before
    and you realise that you were not at all dangerous

    It was they who were frightened

    It is Midsummer’s Eve
    (a wreath of flowers in your hair)
    and he offers champagne in the garden
    (under your pillow: last years’ withered bouquet of dreams)

    So, champagne?
    Yes please, but
    It’s raining
    and the glasses lie scattered in the grass
    like fallen fruit

    is a word he doesn’t comprehend
    he asks you to elaborate

    The irony:
    he says his name is August
    but his skin is white as snow and his eyes glacier blue
    frost mist on his vocal cords

    His gaze covers you with rime frost
    Unable to fold up
    you remain open for siege

    As if merciful, he covers you
    with his sun-ripened poppy-mouth
    the warm seeds dripping against your frozen skin
    pouring in between your lips
    Salty swells trickling down your throat
    gathering at the bottom of your belly, a sun-warmed pool
    You’re in deep waters

    Your will doesn’t hold water
    and you capsize
    Can’t blame the undercurrents in his voice
    you know these waters well

    This is the moment your childhood ends

    The ruin begins with a trembling in the depths of your stomach
    and spreads throughout your body
    A tidal wave of blood
    flooding your heart
    expanding your chest
    Your ribs can’t possibly withstand the counterflow

    He mounts you
    as if you were the K2 or the North Pole
    Moves laboriously and determined
    from the outer edge to the inner depths

    Is there a smaller continent to conquer?

    He is hoisting his flag atop of the tiny crag
    between the lips of the vulva:

    Oh, it has been a sweet spring
    it will be a bitter fall
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