← v19n1, Spring 2020
Poetry · Volume 19, Number 1

After Reading the News this Morning, I Turn to the Curses of My Ancestors: A Found Poem

May you live to a hundred and twenty,

without a head. May you grow

like an onion with your head in the ground.

May you crawl on your belly.

May you become swollen and veined

as a mountain, pepper in your nose

and salt in your eyes. May all your teeth

fall out, except one to give you a toothache.

May you have a hundred houses,

in each house a hundred rooms, in each

room twenty beds, and may fevers

and chills toss you from bed to bed to bed.