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Photo by Kate Gross-Whitaker



The tribe’s stories began to fade with the elders.


Our story concluded a while ago,

but will truly end when we both decide to forget.

Whether purposely or recklessly.


Tomorrow we’ll end up right where we started,

we’ll start right where we left off,


and we’ll end

God knows where,

but changed for sure.


This story lasted

this story lasts,

and I’m glad we met.





To eat the chicken

you must first fish it from the freezer.


We ate a piece last week

so don’t mind what’s missing.


To get rid of the ice you can wait patiently

and thaw it out in warm water.


Or bring the blow torch and roast the bird

without hesitation.


If you’re feeling risky just use the pickaxe

but risk piercing the heart.


The freeze burn is inevitable.


When it’s finally over,

season it with everything you wished

it would taste like.


Roast it like a duck

or fry it like a pig

till the skin is a rich brown.


Slice it up and serve it on a silver platter.

“I taste authentic!” they said

as they licked their fingers and pushed it aside,


waiting for the next dish.