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Tag Archives: Poetry

Hand Washing

I would wash my hands
After opening the refrigerator
And looking in at the lunchmeat and tomatoes,
The blimp-shaped pickles in cloudy water.


The flesh rises in still early morning like dough that wants to make bread. And I am the one to feel it passing through me into you rising easy as saying I know moves quickly into I knew it—or like after your saying I said oh you ohing


From Sanjukta Bandyopadhyay’s “Kitchen,” ” After every night, every morning is the same: each human being eats-drinks-brushes his teeth, just like a human being; I don’t have any illusions.”