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Edition 57

Contents
Poetry

Sous chef

They have to go.  – Trump

 

This is how I remember you: Thursday nights, stray curls

strong arms, beads & masks, stretch pants, your brown skin

so light and warm
I think it melts
in fractions of milliseconds.

 

On Thanksgiving you made empanadas.

Next to you I was a tissue waiting for someone to pluck me up

& blow. Your children petted the dog, their bodies like caramel-pops,

why the dog licked them so intently. Those kids got their good manners & sass

from you, why I message through seventeen time zones to ask how you are.           

Though I’m angry, I know it isn’t about me.

 

Tired of pushing the boulder uphill to find flat land.

 

Rumour has it the top of the hill is rocky & the other side steep

so the boulder will roll out of control, crushing the second gens below –

it’s gravity, scary shit, which is why I’m saying I’d be calmer

if I could get my hands on some fungi

that which was birthed from the gut
of the earth, a knife to keep me busy
and flesh for me to feel

 


From Griffith Review Edition 57: Perils of Populism © Copyright Griffith University & the author.

Griffith Review