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Morning wandered into the middle of the road.
You’re right. Stop reading. I was driving you to work.
Morning occluded sound and light. Morning
chokeholded the roadside. The wind sheered
all memory of roses. The wind sheered the metal
sheet laid atop a pothole. Morning dilated.
Morning faked an ocular migraine. Cancel story.
Morning wants to sex you up. Morning sneaks.
Cancel roses. Morning couldn’t summarize the night.
Cancel circumcised light. Alright. Send starlings.
It was all a mistake and I’m not a woman.
Expectant morning scrubbed daylight. Locked-down
and berserk, morning fussed and buckled.
Morning’s pupils incinerated the road. We internalized
the stoic countryside. Morning came pronouncing
and freckled, heckling sooty snow banks. The foothills
gave up. Morning somersaulted, musky and forceful.
Line morning with collected geodes. Line it
with the finger paintings of privileged children.
Morning wasn’t even one of us. Morning’s split
lip leaked out a universe. Orbiting one of those stars,
at least for now, we exist. Morning wandered into
the middle of the road. You’re right. Stop reading.
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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.