Bloody Mary
By Charlie Bondhus
light a candle, chant
at the mirror, and you'll see
her in you: the old murderess,
the bloodthirsty abortionist.
After the twentieth incantation it began
at my chin and spread
across mouth, jaw, and cheeks,
until my lower face was hers.
11 years old I already knew
the joys of being home alone; of leaving
my bedroom door open as I pushed my pubescent cock
and balls up inside, imagining myself
as something else.
When I touched my new hard
lips I thought about Mom,
whose disapproval was stronger than any witchcraft.
But it was already too late.
When I turned on the light
my face had become
sexless as an egg.
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