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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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