their bodies, flush up against each other,
are stolen.
she rides a sweet girl from cheboygan
he took a man from illinois
that doesn't matter,
though,
they don't see what's on the
surface.
it what's underneath
that counts
his blinding grace, she holds on to.
she loves the way it burns.
burns, burns.
it cleanses her.
she feels
clean.
white.
their voices,
scratched and hoarse,
don't belong to them.
their true voices shriek and cry.
they don't own any of what they have.
except
each other.
they are always the exception.