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Eating Words They wake before me, tortured and trapped behind lids, the incessant beat beating fingers of a wounded frog. When they awake me, I pluck them from the amniotic salt, trying to scratch and separate the pimento from the green. But their fire is already lit, and burns like an infection, rough and blue, right through hairless rocks. I beg them to leave me alone, let me rest, but I know them and how they persist, so I pair them up and send them off to Sunday school. All lined up, the littlest in front, their flat and pointed heads bob, dip and disappear marching into the colorless fold. As I wave them goodbye, and click shut the door behind me, I am wondering how they would have tasted dipped in egg, and fried in butter. |
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