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a poem by Jillian Rose Krupp

Last Youth

The wound image of sex,
your four-year-long masturbation.
Your impulsive tendency,
your youth,
the way the hair curls up your belly
like my head,
wrapped up in scents of
my own wet fingers.
I am stopped,
by god or my own free-willed
promiscuity and forced
to learn sincerity
one blue and one green eye.
The wound impossibility of sex
when I come around at night
to make knowing easier.
So you will know me in darkness,
the one side of my face sunk into pillows.
The one taste of my mouth after
all these tongues merge into
years we believe we have lived.
And these fluids are endless.

© by Jillian Rose Krupp
Gutter Eloquence Magazine ~ Issue #22 ~ July 2012