Mike Utt
When there are no longer people If there was a place a place with people a place for all the people who are only themselves on paper I would be home
Kinsey Moritz
where i’m from i am from stethoscope and tincture; sutures and cross-stitch St. John’s Wort like moonshine under my mother’s tongue and all five of ours “thank you for the food lord amen” my cheeks already full of pickled beets and cow heart after the younger ones had their fill i’m from coal smudged faces, oil-stained hands, and sawdust basement showers thrice a (lucky) week to smell of lye and lard and lemongrass again i’m from dinners ‘round the school table dishes each night to a scratched CD promise of banjos and satellites seven pairs of worn-in boots; but we went barefoot anyway except Sundays when we all hid our scabbed knees and i tried to hide myself
Volume LV | 37
