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Sunday, April 1, 2018

Arrangement by Natalie Eilbert, Day 1

                                                for and in solidarity with Palestine

One can       die for       a long       time. Mother       points
to       the floor       and I       bend. Universe       not hidden

      in the       hip joint,       baruch atah       crumbs. Cameo
      of stranger       dangles in       her ear.       That we       must

love       abstracted survival,       blank lines,       a river
      town in       Jersey where       whitetails sip       grass and

      dogs whimper       their manufactured       breed. Wet       bottom
of       my elder,       her slow       drag up       steps. Sluice

the       wine trapped       in Great       Uncle’s lap,       sour balladic
      invasion Eloheinu,       a feral       soda spill,       egg crumbs,

      intaglio of       iridescent beetle,       the pendant       pinned to
      nylon. I       wear the       mother of       my aunt       on the       pinky.

What       we do       with the       dead jeweler       is wear
      her stones       on kin       and kiln.       Like I       swear I 

      recall the       carnelian in       the velvet       box she       pressed
into       my hand.       They ask       when I       will push       out

the       godhead of       poetry. Bulk       head of       the bull       between
my       knees. When       will I       push out       the godhead       of poetry?

      It is       so good       I think       to be       loved. Slouching       did my 
      people go,       I erstwhile       wicked son.       The feast

      we call       order can       be arranged       to believe,       to taste
      bodycount, territory,       fondled land       bushed and       barracked

and       tilled. Fruit       crumbs, tenemos       kohen juice       blended
Sephardic.       Glory be       thy lobbied       forces. But       aunt

fastens       a bronze       feather into       my hair,       thick curls       stripped
by       nerve oils,       she scrapes       my scalp       awake. I       pull back

      baby strands       with a       money clip,       twirl once       for lineage.
      Bitter leaf       of lyric,       to be       changed I       must shred

      crewel of       metals: Zinc,       Iron, Osmium,       Nickel. That       which
must       take no       for an            must burn       the killing       answer.

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