Our lady of the maison, liver filled with traison,
barbwire across her corazón,
spreads chipped skulls like mahjong tiles
on the dirty floor.

Each couple, a history:
the allergy weds to the spore,
the bitterest almond corresponds to the sweetest death,
the mask covers the complacent face,
the skewered doll atop the skewer loves the skewer,
and the number one climbs on top of the zero.

Mother fates laughs–
because there are no pairings without traps.


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