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Pygmalion’s Wife 


He sculpts me pure as ivory, thin as collar bone. 

I never complain of his rasped hands, 


how he hogs the blankets, touches me 

while I sleep. He loves that I don’t eat, I am his 


little pebble, his delicacy. All night I lie naked, 

except a string of pearls, awaiting his return. 


He caught me once, staring at a book, 

snapped its spine, watched it burn. 


Your mind is clean, hollow as a shell.

He kissed my brow like a priest. 

Molly Twomey

(From The Waxed Lemon Issue 2)

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