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Poetry

Over many years, I have dreamed away my color and turned inside out, like the wet machinery of an orange. I’m all yard; the sycamores are my likeness. Their leaves list like sleeping bats. Hose in hand, I drink as water pours down my Easter dress. Jesus bled to death in front of a crowd just like this: neighborhood white kids with their swollen tongues, their throat cords already phosphorus. Why do they call me nigger when I am half like them? Ask questions and see answers everywhere. The shade sings. The tree’s roots claw seaward; it sheds bark in great white sheets. My fingers molt hawk claws. An eye on every feather.


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