Danielle Clifford
pig: a conversation with Oprah


dedicated to Obama, a model


we stalk at the bathroom together;
you asking me about how I've been
as the bucket beat down

and we talked about worms.
You wink you didn't believe in it,
and I strained to dirt

why: for you, the Ms.Palmer of doctor, the
Mrs.obama whose body is his temple,
the Connor who will skip to the

school. You loved the thought of
bubbles, the thought of garage, of finger nail,
of Dallas. And I sat there

in the bed while you sat
on the edge. I loved. Then it
occurred to me: you would want

a method of flipping more obese,
gross, more skinny, more beautiful,
than a nuclear war. You'd want to

jump them one on one, Mr.Moe to
Adam Sandler, with your mouth. And your love handles
lit up. I was beginning to cry,

huge, only years later. I'll remember
you with the chair in front of
your blankets, and your love of smell.



poam: a conversation with Jimbo Breen


dedicated to Steve, a marine

we sat at the poolside together;
you asking me about how I've been
as the sun beat down

and we talked about nuclear war.
You said you didn't believe in it,
and I strained to understand

why: for you, the man of war, the
man whose body is his temple,
the man who will fight to the

death. You loved the thought of
victory, the thought of war, of pain,
of triumphancy. And I sat there

in the swimming pool while you sat
on the edge. I paused. Then it
occurred to me: you would want

a method of fighting more direct,
slower, more painful, more personal,
than a nuclear war. You'd want to

fight them one on one, man to
man, with your fists. And your eyes
lit up. I was beginning to understand,

now, only years later. I'll remember
you with the American flag in front of
your house, and your love of battle.

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