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Eat The—

By Sam Pekarske From Issue No. 6

eat the anthrosphere

histories in rust and ice,

              telling their children about the taste

              of iron fish,              of mercury in pores

and the smell of sawdust called forth

by the name of a field,      of a birdbath

left alone, hailing this quiet country.

eat the anthropocene

what are limbs to me and what’s mine,

calling the cold country by the air it breathes,

              culling the cold country with air.

harsh light, its digits swimming in sand,

and the epiphanies that come with every meal

skipped                in the name of a field.

eat the anthropologist

whose skin is swimming in linen,

how much capital went into its thread count,

it’s like a skies’ worth                     of shrinking pitches.

              tenderly, tender, tinder smouldering

and such skinny fists breathe the gap,

a country hushes a border falling:

the silence is still happening.

About Sam Pekarske More From Issue No. 6