Puberty
A thousand years ago
on a sorrel hill,
arms became wings.
We dream of the room,
the belt's snake sting
given for wrongs we have done.
Now we rise in dreams
to things never expected,
pluck the opalescent shell
of locust
from rain soaked oak.
There is no original sin.
We take the punishment
as our last: arms, legs,
torsos growing by the day--
summer's cool culvert
darkening our tongues,
fleshing a nakedness,
a first breast
appaloosaed in sun.
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