In the waiting
when the mouth can only
open to the throat
and croak curses -
the heart prays in silence.
Her frail thin,
dandelion-stem limbs
turn and pull.
Clutching her head
she wriggles, trapped
in the tunnel of my
wife’s flesh,
unable to know
the mass hanging
on her skull
keeping her a freak on
her way to choking.
What will be?
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