I dab oud on my wrists, my neck,
the gap between my breasts,
the way the Agar pours sap into its
wounds, the tender scent filling the room.
In Cambodia, they strip down trees
to find it, the infected bark, the salve.
My throat is dry from shouting, this time
about you smoking inside the house,
the stove I left on all night,
the text we cannot translate.
I want you to kiss me, but all I can do
is tell you I would be better off without you.
Tell me, how long does a bruised tongue
take to heal? How sweet does it taste?
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