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96 pages, Paperback
First published August 11, 2020
[..]When my mother left,
my father ate a box of Morton salt hoping he would die.
He didn't die and I called you a beluga whale and I'm sorry
you're salty because you think belugas are dopey dolphins --
but did you know they train their masters and not vice versa?
Belugas blow hoops of bubbles like smoke rings off a cigar
right into the trainer's face, and the sub smiles at his dom,
won like a cheap prize at the ring toss. [...]
...But we are growing old, and we are growing
together, like the wild vine along our fence
that, nameless, appeared to have been planted
overnight, when in truth it fed on our neglect,
crept, link by link, until it was the only thing,
link by link, holding the fence together. [...]
"Yet farmers in your homeland treat it like a sickness and because disease can decimate a culture"
If some words don't belong in poems, then
I say some people can go fuck themselves.