From Issue 10: Dipping-Bird (For Michael Brown)

Dipping-Bird (For Michael Brown) Dominick Knowles Grief could not budge me, nor joy: the false binary. So when the time came to be dignified as old wood varnished from rot, or a pillbottle firebrand fetal in husk of love, I thought only of the objective pull toward dirt, lizardlike scream preceding the order of things, the soul that nods like a dipping-bird. Not unlike my father, whose hair grew from a patch of blonde stone. or my mother, rising from the feet of holy men she loved. His features sewn together by coteries of gargoyles; Her arms threaded thru the…

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