Fever

my fingers
in precision
to the rhythm

utter to bucket

i've milked
the goat
and now

have got

the churn
between
my legs

making

butter
but not to 
sauté diced 

onions but to

jump 
for to use 
on the burn

for to sooth

choosing
to cool the 
heat of her

brand
Copyright © | Year Posted 2019

Poem

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