one of the gay jamaican refugees we harbored in our garage. peed in the garden, ate chicken, bones & all, loved american blues, wore bright button-downs, cooked us spicy rice & peas on sundays. disappeared one day, & took our bicycle with him.
I'm a cook. And I write, sometimes about food, mostly poems. I make stuff. I get lost. I'm worried about vanishing bees, melting icecaps, the decrease of civility in the world, seedless watermelons, and whether there will be enough time for me to get it all right.
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