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Who Didnít Know That It Could Go This Far?
We made angels in the snow,
and you just stayed in the mold
you made, your fantasy
open for anyone to read.
Now itís morning,
too early for the sun,
the world outside
glowing pale blue,
your angel waiting for the day.
On my bed, on your knees,
heels pressed into the curve
of your ass, blindfolded,
hands bound by a chain
hanging from the ceiling
and raised over your breasts,
brown nipples pointing at the cold.
Suspended in the basement with
hooks pulling, stretching
your flesh, holding you off
the floor, you told me
your wish to fly, to grow
wings and never have to
come back down.
I push your hair aside,
run the point of the hook
over your spine, shoulder blades,
back side of your rib cage,
across familiar holes,
the geography of our love.
I carve places
for your wings to grow--
two fresh holes on either side
the line of bone,
the steel curving in,
pulling out--
you suck in air,
voice arching like your back,
as wings spread out,
across white skin
like blood in the snow.

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