Nov/Dec 2020 • Vol. XLII No. 6 Poetry |

From

Pay your toll, sell your soul. Pound for pound costs more than gold.  — Grandmaster Flash and Melle Mel, “White Lines (Don’t Do It)” Now I know that my father dies in NYU hospital of a blood clot caused by a stent the doctors put in after pulling him back from a grave case of sepsis at age 71 in 2018 a day after I refused to touch him because I was five months pregnant with my second son, whose weight in my belly was the precise shape of my remove in the hospital where the flu and pneumonia (my doctor warned) lurked. There is the feeling the mind makes of loss: when I saw his body I thought he looked the way pharaohs looked shrunken in the afterlife before the rites were undertaken. In the Brooklyn Museum my father spent his life assembling a Book of the Dead no one had ever been able to assemble, whose fragments were expatriated from Egypt by Charles Wilbour in the late nineteenth century a century before the Sackler family put their names on

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Pay your toll, sell your soul. Pound for pound costs more than gold.  — Grandmaster Flash and Melle Mel, “White Lines (Don’t Do It)” Now I know that my father dies […]

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Pay your toll, sell your soul. Pound for pound costs more than gold.  — Grandmaster Flash and Melle Mel, “White Lines (Don’t Do It)” Now I know that my father dies […]

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