The mangoes are always ripe

Stunned silence of dew-tinted morning, date unknown, / the raw stink of sneaking, battleworn men in torn shirts. / A faulty stitching reveals a hirsute torso, a gash / over the heart, a reminder: Each body can claim / ownership of an organ that pumps blood, / but no one, goddamn, no one can prove a soul.

Kimberly Southwick, “No One’s Revenge Yet,” For Every Year, for the year 1716

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