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When you were / in the Everglades we canoed from Flamingo and through the canals.
My feet moved down another street / and I saw the shape they would draw / on the map in my mind.
Look at my heartbeat / and its consequence, / that cup warm on my palm
How would I know / when I’m empty and quiet like breath?
But I do miss the hymns, / the small, hard apples with their dimpled skin. I do miss / things.
As a student, I stitched / a cadaver together / while my professor / said you must / be a predator . . .
I ain’t dead and in this form, / I can matrix my way out of your bullet.
I was also spat across an ocean
and clung to the edge of an unwilling continent.
Selected by Sonia Sanchez as a winner of the 2021 Boston Review Annual Poetry Contest
I ask my brother if he can hear cicadas where he is. My brother doesn’t know what cicadas are. He is 40 years old. He asks me to repeat it.
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