A BLANK-VERSE POEM
Brown skin, like mine, of bread was eaten, like
Punch, like fruit. Turpentine. In its descent,
The bird—a fine man—the pocked, the smeared, my
Father was a stain. The most-scratched girl, he
Killed my mother more than one time. They were
A serpentine map of constellations.
✴✴✴
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