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kudzu to cotton (AL, 10/21)

In 100, by Nora on November 29, 2020 at 6:23 pm

there is something dripping here. even in the dry plywood and concrete and gravel, there is ooze just under the surface. Perhaps the viscosity only works in the 4th dimension: it may not feel sticky to the touch, but its sticks back to the past, gumming to the violence and glory of a racist seceded nation, 4 years in sovereign existence but hundreds in conception. the clinging kudzu has been displaced by fields of cotton, innocent cloudy puffs of dazzling white, that likewise insidiously stick to their stalks, necessitating the inexhaustible, infinite hands. an open mewling maw, still seeping dank sweat.

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