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Instinct, treasured dangerous thing, survival-sharp
and folded in the breast pocket of a loaned wool suit,
held behind his back, kept like a card in the sleeve,
worn around the neck on a string,
forest-honed into a thin talon of rigid bone
for ripping the meat of words into smaller pieces.
But now a limb withered against his chest,
curled lamb asleep before Lent, attendant
but only decorative, just there in case he needed it
as he stood up from his chair, and the fine point of his tongue
searched the cavity of his mouth and bits of heavy,
fragrant meat fell out.
And then the mouth began to make sounds,
choked howls groping for a vowel or a consonant,
at which point the other diners, guests of the doctor,
promptly put napkins in front of their faces
like what they’d witnessed was not only sacred but contagious,
as if they too might forget their own names.
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Draconian individual punishment distracts from systemic change and reinforces the cruelest and most racist system of incarceration on the planet.
Our well-being depends on a better understanding of how the logic of labor has twisted our relationship with pleasure.
“I was my father’s son. My father was Nai Nai’s least favorite.” A Taiwanese American man, driven from home by a secret, reevaluates his childhood memories of his grandmother.