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Won’t Make Old Bones

It’s the sabotage of spring, cracks where curves were and the pale murmur of carnal winds. There was once Vaseline skin, cells languid; panache before the bark and ossified teeth. There was the spectral peach, now the scab in milk, humid armpits and the golden blush dipped in cinnamon.   She is Machiavellian in her bodice gown bending stares like …