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by Bray McDonald
You were diagnosed through the gnawed indentions
that read like runes on your bones.
The deep bloodless teeth marks of time.
you clawed upward spitting honey flowered venom
between the eyes of roaches and the chariots of the Hittites.
You became a turnip growing inside out
between the tenement houses and the prison.
You feared the salad of the Emperor awaited you.
And once you were realized
there was nowhere to bury
and no time to hide those ragged bones.
You sighed as witnesses turned to ghosts
and you took the bloody chicken claw
and scrawled the sad mad poems
that were the peregrine blue
of where you had been
and the patulous green of how you grew.