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She moves from farm to town bringing
only daughters. The call of dough thrown
to hot stone. In the butcher's shop she loses
only two fingers, while the vacant
farmhouse on whose porch I was never
pictured vanished. There's little the rich
won't harvest. Wind threshes only an orchard,
in the womb a child burgeons. In the hospital
mother holds the hand of father's body,
which takes two weeks to release the dose
of radiation it may release while alive.
Daughters bear daughters, a dark roof to
the orchard's mouth. There's a sound caught
like a soft piece of lung or a phrase in the old
language for a hand hot on the back,
the back to another cold wall. Across state
lines you followed, quick stitching of an
organ to itself. In town she lost only
one religion. Other daughters watch,
sewing butter to butter. This is the bread
of the body not left for coyotes
and it was birds I first
no longer heard.
from the book EXCISIONS / Black Lawrence Press
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"Terrance Hayes Won't Be Pinned Down"

"What do we recognize when we recognize Hayes? On the one hand, it’s wrong to reduce any artist’s work to a single topic, even one as capacious as Blackness, or whiteness, or self-consciousness, or love, or regret. On the other hand, these poems neither wish to, nor find themselves able to, get away from Afro-diasporic identities, from disappointment in romantic love, and from a history of dispossession."

viaTHE YALE REVIEW
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What Sparks Poetry:
Sandra Lim on "Black Box"


"My poem, 'Black Box,' is beguiled by the metaphor of the black box as a way to broach the world, the people around us, and our own hearts. Part of that beguilement also has to do with the very limits of the black box metaphor itself; conceptual orderliness of a certain way of thinking can imprison us in a limiting framework—the black box is itself a black box. One way out of this is to construct more conceptual frameworks with horizons of possibility going far beyond what we hold to be true, or at least, visible."
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