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Barbara Daniels Blood Heat Whose thighs are these, long in the water? You’re not who you thought you were, stiff perpendicular, but spreading flesh, belly, breasts. Your smallest scar darkens, perverse little W. Vivid pairs of orderly staple scars glow maroon, your fingers hushed in stilled water. Your warmed legs rise, you almost float, but gravity sinks you. Perhaps what you think of as pleasure, the body’s core calmed in the blood heat of water, is only absence of knowledge. You hear a world you might enter—under the tub pipes elbow downward, gasping, sucking, breathing your name. |