Nov/Dec 2016 • Vol. XXXVIII No. 6 PoetryNovember 1, 2016 |

The Likes of You

Means each hour for lack of a church bell your priest rings a hand-me-down guillotine, and into the wood chipper falls the farmhand who each spring instead of the cherry blossoms blooms from the cherry trees, it means he's in league with your town drunk, your chief of police, it means they're reminiscing blotto tonight about their reign of terror over the mudpuppies, over the combine blades, over the peregrines, and they drape their 60,000 miles of veins like angel hair from the last of the evergreens, it means last on the list of everything they'll never teach you about the white trash, tax-frauding unincorporated village that established you circa 1986 (and you won't find it in your Want Ad Digest) (and you won't find it in your father's father's father's farmer's almanac) is that when your dogs die of three species of tapeworm you hold each one by the tail like a broiler, start counting off nine-nine-nine

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