Closet Of Red

Hello Mr. Magazine - - EDITOR'S NOTE -

In place of no, my leak­ing mouth spills fox­gloves. Trum­pets of tongued blos­soms lit­ter the locked closet. Up to my an­kles in petals, the hanged gowns close in, mother mul­ti­plied, more—there’re al­ways more corseted ghosts, red-silk bod­ies crowd my mouth. I would say no, please; I would say sorry, Papa; I would never ask for mother again, but dresses dressed in dresses are dresses that own this gar­net dark, this mouth. Th­ese hands can’t find the walls, only more moth­ers emp­tied out.

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