We come from three generations of gunsmiths
and armorers. Our pride name is Swahili for dust.
We sew necklaces together from doorknobs
and knucklebones and eye sockets and teeth.
We weep at the sight of sugar cane cut.
Our headlamps reveal the skull of a jaguar,
precise stone men, staircases hollowed, a two-edged
knife. Sacrifices seem another form of astronomy.
Pyramids predict the face of the earth. Our gardens
grow fructose. Our hands fill with cake. We emulate
the rasps of frogs. What we ate is processed in the liver.
Legally hunted lions hang, wilted to bone.
We poison livestock. We rescue rafts. We patrol borders
marked by marooned populations. Our spines
are the spokes of motorcycle wheels. Our longships
empty. Our rodents stow. Our goldenrods produce toxin.
Our gallflies perch. Our offspring hatch. Our onslaughts
happen. Our coral reefs pulse. We exit through fences
we then repair. We survive the dry season. We crave meat.
Our dark manes correlate with robustness. Our Asian carp
are tenacious. Our wildebeest rank high as prey.
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