CHIMERA by Vievee Francis

/ / Issue 2, Poetry

I have no charms. Admittedly.
No gold comb can move through
This mane. My skin is not translucent.
It is not soft. Mine is a tail to fear. I know.
But from this goat’s body,
Up from my wood-smoke lungs, from
The milk of me, comes a song, a melody
To open your wounds, then lick them clean.



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