why don't you send that root the one that remembers all of your grandmother's recipes the rough hands of grandfather and the names of plants and animals we see you hunched crutch in arm pock marked lungs struggling to stay dry beneath dirty water bridges and tent cities and refugee camps waiting for the apocalypse to reveal your true nature the stolen land the burned bridges the sad demons just waiting for a touch in their social isolation waiting for a chance to bake fresh bread play dress up build a garden milk some goats and have a brass band parade but Babalu Aye if you hear this call root us in tickle open roasted corn fresh coconut smoked fish dry wine an altar of stones a field in woods ashe
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