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The Monogamist

O, One Love, that is you—by the ladder,
Trying to nail a painting of some woman and a baby.
Her eyes are dull pink, like Mary’s,

But so is her hair—some circus freak.
It is true,
She is quite the kitchen contortionist.
She’ll bend over backwards for any

And every mush of baby spew—
And where is that fat lump of
You?
He is by the tool-shed,

Tacking out his eyes.
He does not love himself.

Yesterday when you stood over me
You almost had me convinced
You really are God.

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