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I fold myself pretzel
On the couch drinking
Pitchers of drool
And salty fresh snot

When big, gentle hands
Of not woman nor man
Sort through my curls
And wrap me in knots.

“Mother?” She smiled
Dissolving brown whirlpools
Of chocolatey crystals
In microwaved milk.

I fold myself centipede
Run one hundred norths
Chase stars till he prods
With sharp wooden stick.

My tongue slides deep grooves
Of unbuttoned tufting
Stuffed rosemary breadcrumbs
And pie from Thanskgiving.

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