in stuttered shutters
a well rehearsed genuflection
breathes in
breathes out
the olive oil
across your palms
between your
breasts
and across your
temple and tabernacle
you beat me to the punch
caught me hands up
reclining in a wooden chair
over lacquered concrete
waiting to fall
and split the prize
one for me
two for you
salt on our tongues
preserving our languages
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