A Postcard for the Coquettes

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La Sorcière

You can tell, of death or devils
she has never thought much;
the monstrous pregnancy
of her coiffure defies the skinless crown.
All claws and maggots,
those half-men, but
cloth and care, she,
gold and perfume. It has been
the zest of history
to gossip about death and the maiden.
But her womb accommodates
morals of another nature,
her flesh leaves no purchase for decay.
She will not cease, and for that,
they resent her.

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