At the beach house, Mama cooked whole crabs alive.
Through the steam, we watched them slowly seize up
and stiffen like the dead fish that washed ashore
the day you cut your foot on shattered glass.
When sand stuck to your weeping wound, I couldn’t clean it
the Russian train runs on only time
bones come from its exhaust pipe
we twirl our black umbrellas
and there is no dream
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from the MFA community at
Antioch University Los Angeles.
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