Manistee Light by Samiya Bashir
Brother I don’t either understand this skipscrapple world— these slick bubble cars zip feverish down rushes of notcorn or notbeets notcabbage and the land and the land— you should know, man, nothing grows down here anymore except walloped wishes and their gouged out oil cans. Where notbloodroot spans us guard towers land mine the sand. They twist us. They tornado us. No— Do spring breezes bring the scent of smelt? Remember? Even on strike our mother Gathered smelt by their fingery bagfuls And fried them whole. I wish I knew How she did it. It was almost enough.
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