Peter Richards

Red Boy, Red Girl

Red boy, red girl, where do you often go sailing.
Where do you under small sailboat auspices
hear the hiss of a fruit informing its sections.
In the very last province I saw you kicking
my tiny and lockable head. One fresh
hemisphere splits to reveal me informing
on both of my sections: red boy, red girl,
fruit is a butcher where deep in the afterlife
Joshua can see you peeling Wheelwright
down to his sections. In afterlife there is more
than one woman and I can feed on them both
like an abyssinian cat licking his pill free of pâté.
I'd lick with my finger the cob of their approval,
but presently Estonia is crushing my head
down to its lender, down to its very last gland,
and I am that reproachful vascular dollop.
Red boy, red girl, I'm afraid to let you strike me
even a little. Such welts leave a dinginess
that cause me to shout O invincible sick river
wearing medieval pants . . . Red boy, red girl,
at the first boot-heel to my head I remember only
being happy. I remember some very clear sediment
that grew in a fable. Themeless and without moral,
it feels like a grain being licked from the inside.

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