after Alberto Rios
We give because we are broken
We give because we are mending
We give because our lip is bruised
We give because she smiled
Giving is wrinkled
It has no teeth
It mocks the meat it feeds on
then eats the bread of contrition
It grows when cut-
not like a zero-sum apple pie
It spills everywhere
like a poor woman’s jar of oil
It goes bad every morning
if hoarded overnight
It must be wasted
like nard on a poor man’s feet
We give because of that
Published in Cider Press Review, Volume 22, Issue 4.
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