Untitled Draft
we mangle our men to mold us,
ripe peaches plucked by
monstrous hands & we
love them, fuzzed fingers
filling us, pleading our
souls out of us, promising
warmth after our winter freeze
we sparkle them with kisses,
breathe their names, conscious
of our springtime scent on
the breeze of our passing
them by, eyes downward,
sacrificial lambs who’ve
signed on willingly
for this secret slaughter
Thistle Thoughts 
Interesting poem Jennifer!
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Thank you. It’ll probably change form when it’s finished.
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I see. Would love to read more of it.
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Whenever it comes. I just know this isn’t finished yet.
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Hmmm.
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Ominous, Jennifer, women as lambs led to slaughter. Or rather, going to their slaughter willingly.
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I’m not sure where it’s going. I had an image in my head… maybe it’ll come back.
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