← v19n1, Spring 2020Poetry · 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.
