My Native American grandmother cried over her Holly baby,
my peanut, who traveled with us to the other Indian markets.
There was the silken heat, barefoot children smiling forward
at the dishonest world.
Back home women would pick them food
from the garden. Don't let those fuck peanut
dogs hound around after sunset she said. So
stubborn the fuel from her orange temper will
out sing even the 8:30 sparrows. That voice'll
carry over the chimney smokes. Those are
hand made vocals.
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