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Poetry of Issue #4
           
           Page 15

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SLUT

Why does the word satisfy so?

The tongue slides up
the arch of the mouth, the tip touches, flicks
the teeth, biting
off the final T.

I always knew it was me.

The whispered S, the soft slur of the L,
guttural shove of the U, the abrupt
ejaculate of the T –

yes, it’s me;

that deep inside rut
the tunnel of lightning
with its slimy electrolyte conductor
(slut = slime + rut)
of thunder –

it’s me.

I’m going somewhere you can’t go –
that’s why you hate me.
Every cell in my body
is a rehearsal for something unfathomable,

something dark, fragile,
redolent and diaphanous –
unnamable.
I always knew it was me.

        

        Margaret McCarthy