His head will grow
to the pillow, she thought;

then she thinks about
fingers, raw from the board
and about stains, rust
rosettes sprouting on sheets,
on slips; they faded but

stayed and it fed his ire,
fired his cock to see stains

blooming proof across
starched fronts, church dresses
folded warm on the table,
smelling like greasy soap
and she thinks about

scrubbing, ceaseless scrapes,
split nails digging roses up

from muddy water that
stings flesh red, red as primroses
and she thinks about flowers
after that, of seeds strewn,
how they take and grow

just anywhere, how they
seemed to spring now,

wild from his pillow,
speading past its plump edge,
running trailers down
the wall, flowing out to
root in the carpet and

his head will grow
there, she thought.

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