I would prefer my arms
as long as Cleveland, my feet
fingered, my big toes opposable.

I would prefer my jaw yanked out,
side grinding, canines
honed to a pinprick.

I would prefer fruit
and the primacy of thieves.

I would prefer babies,
nimble in a week, clinging
with strong strong hands.


I prefer language
on the lip, nostril and lobe —
not of the maw.

I prefer my wares moot
and unsold. Howlers.

I prefer the dream of us
skilled in our dominions.
I prefer the dream.

With neither fealty nor paw,
I prefer melon over the husk
of most circumstance.

I prefer melon over all things
beholden to madness.

Image: MadMax Chef on Unsplash

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