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By Fanny Dvorkin February 25, 2019

Sonnet II

Two months have passed, nay not two, since this bed Which ere was warm, hath cooled - matted with hair; Where once were murmurs, now nothing is said:

O! Sing in me Muse, (off-key or plain dead) More feline, feral, fey, than feminist

Who cackles when I moan, "Hiss, hiss, purrrr," You recalcitrant orientalist -

Who sheaths your katana within my fur, All the while praying, Domini Dom- Hypocritical Don Juan, and damn proud: I shan't play Jerry to your peeping Tom,

Nor veil my heart beneath your Turin shroud. You got these twelve lines, now here’s one more; I'll be your soneteer, but never your whore.

About the author

Fanny Dvorkin is a Professional Theatre student and poet.

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