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baby in exodus
Micah Buchman


when i’m oranged up on the Lord’s plate i kiss the hamsa i pray for a revolution i pray for a lover i pray for a real lover i mean i pray for a crane to rip away a piece of my hip and i pace like my virgo moon told me to 

i only wear socks my wanted bathes in rose-dust my quanta arches its back in new mexico and a florist doesn’t know what to do with what i’ve laid out in front of him a month of fertility ends with a fist of red onion in my mouth and i bite down like i love it

and maybe i do love it but i pray regardless my people want to be heard and i want to be loved maybe not just as a slice but a whole bouquet of cacti or a plague or a school of fishes not fish but every vagus of body 
your quiet knowing sinks deep under my scales you weigh my heart and it ghosts upwards like your usual clementine and one day i’ll figure out how to apologize

Micah Robert Marks Buchman (PZ '26) is a gemini venus and winner of the sarah s. weisberg poetry prize. he misses the sand crabs on atlantic beach.

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