Erasure. The queen is coming.
Her eyes chip corners from your chin,
a smarting wound
and a slap dash gash.
Bend low now. The queen is coming.
She crushes stone fruits beneath her
steely feet,
cropping the edges from the moon.
Palms on the earth. The queen is coming.
She smells like gold
and looks as distant as a star.
Words pour out of her
with the weight of a pulsing river
that cuts continents in two.
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