Every gal
gets a poem.
I like some
more than others.
Especially the one
I hate.
Pick through my words.
Peel the meat from my bones.
Pull out my plucked arrow
and push it 'tween
these pickled ribs.
You stand before me
weakly
and I smile.
You're so at home
down there.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem