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I used to work construction.
I had a hole in my head the size
of an ankh. My gut was a body bag,
full of tanks. Inside every tank, a prize.
No one owns the Loa. I bought a prayer
and a wing, twenty American dollar.
The child’s toy poses a choking hazard.
The child, too. Life’s a natural disaster.
I capture smoke within my coffin
and offer it to Dr. Strange.
They say that light’s the only constant
but I spend all day watching it change.
I wish people changed half as often.
The white goat is a fertility god.
The black giraffe is a wishbone
in the snow globe of the scorpion. And me?
I’m your host, Jack Kevorkian.
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But I do miss the hymns, / the small, hard apples with their dimpled skin. I do miss / things.
The vast hinterlands of the Global South’s cities are generating new solidarities and ideas of what counts as a life worth living.
Protests in China are shining a light not only on the country’s draconian population management but restrictions on workers everywhere.