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When I sit at the dinner table I look at three men who have sucked my breasts.
One sucks them still, two sucked them temporarily.
I look at the sun flooding in through the window and I look at the glasses on the table.
I look at three mouths that open and close around the food.
I look at the food disappear from the table as the sun shifts in the window.
I say: 

You have all sucked my breasts.

As they wipe their mouths with the napkins.

They nod and smile at me and I smile at them.

The meal is not over, I add. There is dessert.
I say and stand up because I don’t want anyone to leave.

I want to have my eyes closed as I bring them the dessert.
The hot, red-hot dessert and whipped cream.


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Partner to a press called Tenement, Hotel is a publications series for new approaches to fiction, non fiction & poetry & features work from established & emerging talent. Hotel provides the space for experimental reflection on literature’s status as art & cultural mediator. 

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