Sonnet 1

Every woman should know
the phases of the moon, ache
in the thick infancy of rain—
every morning stretch and shake

bones from their hair. Every
woman should fit
in your mouth—carefully
sway like flowers that sit

in salt water infused air—
hover in the exhaled weightless grace
of breath, know the look of a man
lost among the bones of her face.

Every woman should open for
those who are willing to explore.

by Anthony Parker

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