By Anastasia Jill

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There is a chug in her lungs
put there by robot musicians
who told her she composed
of machinery, but never of girl.

I learn to rebuild instruments
Of more honey and flesh designs.
She is beauty, she is girl, she
is more than a piece of machine

She is a piece of a red meat
topped in the sweetest cut
of pepper. Fat juices of her
deserve to run down creamy chins —

She rebuilds herself —
converts liquid fuel to blood,
and oil to hemoglobin.

She doesn’t know anatomy
but she knows his roommate,
flesh — the huge metropolis
selling body parts on street markets.

We buy the rest of her from a cart,
glitches of limbs wrapped in
peach and milk until she is skin
tumbling down bone like an avalanche.

Her heart still beats a carburetor,
so she learns to play herself.
on the corners, we collect coins
for the new songs she composed.

Anastasia Jill