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Rebecca Farivar A Dead Bird's Neck Her neck bends back look up— the building, its ladders their twinning— a lattice of escape and won’t stop. She can feel her tendons tighten. This happens to birds post-death, suffer in the fossil though they don’t feel the pinch. Her neck snaps, pulls, an almost “u” farther farther Home The teabag plunk against porcelain. China villages living in cobalt crumbled years ago. We need hot water. Those girls who don’t like irony. Dishes to wash. China shot and registered execution style. Beached Whales That summer, so many washed to shore, the beach became a wall and each whale became its own tally. Can you imagine? Your body a mark for your body? No one knew the cause, if there even was a cause. Can an animal have reason? Is that tug, that need to join and be loved, a reason? Is that what makes the tide? We were baffled at the time, but now I think it wasn’t so strange. Not so unlike other summers, summers of Heaven’s Gate or L.A. riots—mass, unpatterned patterns. Not unlike the time that Chowchilla man stole a busload of children and hid them for hours in the quarry. |