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Biscuit tin

On a pink background, a blue gift-wrapped box with a bow

I will sit on the other side today with two small round biscuit tins in front of me and one is


and the other blue and you whoever or whatever you are will learn the meaning of this from before you are born

as I keep on hold the colours and prints to wrap you in gentle delicate flowers or little cartoon lions and boys with fists that say Bam and Super

until I know what lies between your legs the cigar or the smile of consolation if you’re the first, commiseration

if you’re the second

and as you rise (I forget which poet made that term so popular) as you rise I will pound you into

the tin of my choosing

into the colours of those life choices that the tin holds for you

male biceps at a whisky bar that flex and tell the boys the woman is in hospital having your baby

female hands pretty forever fragrant and lipstick on a mouth that’s really good for just one thing

if you dare



look for another tin another choice be who you are in any way not befitting your tin or if you are

born being anything but one of two

only one

of only two

pink and blue

I will kill you.



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