Blackbirdan online journal of literature and the artsSpring 2019  Vol. 18 No. 1
an online journal of literature and the arts
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You serve me a bowl of salmon,
garlic, scotch bonnet peppers

and the last of the spinach. You
stewed it down in the new French

saucepan, made a broth of it,
with the transparent threat of salmon

bones, and this is how I cleanse
myself of the dreams that haunt—

the narratives of a lingering anger,
though all you have given to me

is a bowl of broth; while outside,
the leaves turn, then dance toward the city.  

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