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Apollo, Hear Me.

I stand before you,

farmers kin,

my mother’s green thumbed girl.

asking only,

for a gentle kiss

 

to cheek.

I’d fly to you–

by wing or wind,

simply for a glimpse.

 

I have nothing to offer

but the dirt bedded under overgrown nails.


And a vulgar honesty.


Words by Bea Butterworth, she/they

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