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126 pages, Paperback
First published September 1, 2019
What once was feathered like a voice, a seduction / of finches, now is vigorous, bids me into the sun.
Just the scent of uterus (wet dog / and sandalwood) and the bee-funeral burning / on my compost heap remain.
To hear a droning in the distance and not suffer a sudden execution of your center, but think of bees drowned in jars of raspberry jam, their dead husks on the windowsill all summer, sweat pooling under your shirt, between your legs, face against the hum of the fan.
the price, we think, the price was worth it said Albright about Iraqi child casualties / the prophet with the face of light / the sequined, heavy velvet of our mothers’ good dresses / the smell of grass in his hair after rolling in meadows / the unimaginable god / the terrible time to be alive.
Even I, with my old-world passport / and earflap hat, am settling, / at least, on what it means / to be American, walking / by the cattle pasture, which, / poisoned by a faulty protein, / has turned the buttery grass / a psychedelic blue.