Despy Boutris
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PATRIOTISM


Your name still blossoms        
                        on my lips
                                          like a bleed.
                       And I still imagine your scarred chest,
torn open             wide
                        like a mouth
                                in song, shrapnel finding
                       shelter in your ark
               of ribs.             And your face, half-
eroded with blood, your eyes
                        half-open at the painful
                                   split      
             of bones and gristle.
I still think of your mother             mourning
                                your death,
your body resting in a trench, then a grave,
            and your anatomy:
                      your blueveins,             a body I knew
                                 from flank to foot, casting
                      a shadow on my sheets,
your skin,
                        once warm
                                    against mine, now pocked
          with holes,             like a cut
of seacoral,
                                    a honeycomb.
 


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