She is thinking about the expression:
"cling fast", as if holding on
is something that happens quickly.
The low waver of the church organ
radiates from her forehead.
Her ache sits still
between her belly and her thighs:
Her sun in half-sleep, fingers curled
around her braids, that crawl her back
like spiders, tickle her skin like
tall grass. His laughter hangs
from his chin like spit.
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