Jennifer Tolo Pierce
E s t r u s
No swollen ass or rose-encrusted chest to offer. No elephant’s flagrant trumpet or
rousing monkey scream. No whip to tempt, no unzippable new seduction. Only
the precarious stillness of a dancer holding herself on the bus. Holding herself
with the precise sharpness of hairpins, the botched perfection of butterfly lips that
part just enough for the tongue to steal through before the spark catches the roof
and the windows explode.
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