shit for skinny bitches

tell me where they’ve gone,
those curves spread wide
as bone bowls to drink sweet sensuality,

give me the earthy ones
with their woodskin and wiles,
their willow-bend warmth
and welcoming arms;

give me sunspotted sylphs
whose heads breathe flame,
india ink over flax or sun
(i prefer the moon, anyway).

what orchard must i traverse–
where might i pick plum lips
and blackberry breasts made
to suckle sweet milk?

where are the others–
the ones like me?

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