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62 Honor His daughter’s room never locked. His scimitar by the torch light. Falcate moon shadows the mud wall. Above her bed, a triptych, Birth, Birth, Birth, arriving is also leaving. And the language of surrender comes from the nectar of breasts. Her first word was yes. Weep, weep, for God sits with his cohorts. She is bawdy—even though violated. She is body, djinn’s temptation. A pomegranate stain never washes out. ...

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