Christine Stewart


BIOGRAPHIA


Apologia


After everything, I am the apologetic tree, the first leaf, the

franchise, always pleasing women who have the double band of signature

across their knees. I am the piece picked from the invisible. My pink

edition scuttles the erotic feed of this passage. Follow close this

transgression, this postcard, this tear. My failings bear you to water.

Aporia sets your legs adrift. The modalities of my yes lie in your

wanderings, your warm and erratic sex. My neck is a miniature cameo of

its own chance. I am not the parings of my privacy--as if my stripped

shrinking were haste--I am hidden, not figure, not thought. My blood

is jeweled in doubt. My birth rustles its pledge. My dress opens with

the sound of birds. My own nakedness dips with whitened fingers into

your mouth. My teeth are here. My fringes part as only the pedestrian

can convey. Thank God that I stand simply with a boy slightly similar

to myself? Where else would I go? For my arteries sprawl, too gothic,

too called.

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