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K e l l y F o r d o n
This Is a Man-Fractured Land
The kitchen table is a bunker.
We’re not raising consciousness.
We’re hiding underneath.
The streets are swarming
with plastic swindlers.
Roving red-eyes who rock
our daughters to sleep,
slip into their ear buds,
caress their baby faces,
lull them into dreams of
the perfect Still life in Bloom.
Instead, let’s let our eyelids
drip down our faces
like pancake batter, pull
our graying hair out in tufts,
set our bellies roiling
like waves on the Pacific;
reconstruction the last resort
of some other nitwit brigade.
guest editor: Sara Biggs Chaney
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