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Oedipus In The Dark They would call me Oedipus in the dark my crying mother, her face nestled against my neck, our arms and whispers holding one another like lovers, looking to me to honor marriage vows with eloquence and altruism her husband's hospice mouth of selfish, shit smeared teeth wouldn't. With the night taut like jealous heartstrings I invoked package store spirits standing at the foot of a sleeping throne gone limp after usurpation. Fingering the silent violence of my father's ghost, puncture wound promises, I hoped they would call me Hamlet if my mother woke up screaming covered in regicide but, no, they would call me Oedipus in the dark I just wasn't blind enough.
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