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Alyss

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Another Virgin Loses A Child

trying to imagine a prodigy. This is
  what happens to young southern bees

whose fathers won’t let them ride
in backs of pickup trucks and mothers won’t say
a word about honey for fear it’s viscosity
  will stick to
a daughter’s lips. Hell,
  this happened to
me, Northern drone, compound eyes,
a blue town refusing to gaze. I don’t care about
her. I will not be
ignored. How troubling being forced to worry
about things one doesn’t understand. Gifted
  sunglasses for the brain, ramshackle for teeth. The truth,
those virgins are not bees and neither am I.
But if the world squints they might mistake us
for something distinct. Wait so long
then wear a face aging I suffer
so much I cannot say. Bodies built only
to carry, that ghostly campfire story. Marshmallow uteruses
burnt. An immaculate conception
is to be proud of. Brag no dirty hands
  touched us, only God himself with a glowing pointer finger
tip. There are so many wonder babies being born
nowadays, one might think the earth could be salvaged.

But before our miracle newborns even open one eye
  they know there’s nothing left in this world to save.

Jennifer Neely