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Who will see us, dead?
Our first mother will wait for you,
dear brother, with open arms.
You'll bounce, cherubic, on cotton
Most certainly; God rewards
wing-beat by wing-beat
with white chocolate
Barred from evil women,
imprisoned by a heavy
ball and chain? Not hardly.
Father will fall into bliss, a
whore's crooked candy cane arms.
Not Hansel, soaring in peppermint
swirl skies. Nor Father, wrapped
up in his thousand bits of honey.
But I do.