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Broth
You serve me a bowl of salmon,
garlic, scotch bonnet peppers
and the last of the spinach. You
stewed it down in the new French
saucepan, made a broth of it,
with the transparent threat of salmon
bones, and this is how I cleanse
myself of the dreams that haunt—
the narratives of a lingering anger,
though all you have given to me
is a bowl of broth; while outside,
the leaves turn, then dance toward the city. 