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 Of฀Snakes,฀Of฀Gluttony I’ve฀heard฀the฀potato฀is฀exotic, that฀it฀originally฀came฀from฀Peru born฀of฀a฀pre-Columbian฀culture rich฀in฀peanuts฀and฀warrior-priests. I฀don’t฀know฀if฀this฀is฀true but฀I฀believe฀it.฀It฀adds฀flavor, phyllo-layers฀of฀history฀and฀place, Neruda’s฀continent฀of฀the฀coiled anaconda,฀rapacious,฀religious, gigantic.฀Though฀possibly฀there฀are no฀anaconda฀in฀Peru,฀it฀doesn’t฀matter— gluttony฀isn’t฀interested฀in฀accuracy. It’s฀differences฀I฀crave,฀the฀many kinds฀of฀potato—red฀and฀Idaho, au฀gratin,฀French฀fried—I฀eat฀them฀all— like฀swallowing฀an฀egg฀whole, everything฀taken฀into฀the฀jaws, the฀jaws฀my฀continent฀of฀sound, long-vowel฀I฀and฀generous฀pi— a฀tail฀of฀numbers฀twisting฀through generations฀longer,฀Szymborska฀has฀said, than฀the฀longest฀snake.฀Insatiable, immense.฀Inexplicable฀as฀love. I฀love฀the฀inexplicable—  this฀world฀where฀joy฀is฀still฀possible despite฀history’s฀lessons—how฀we฀torture our฀neighbors฀and฀eat฀our฀enemies. Despite฀the฀Humpty-Dumpty฀vertigo of฀our฀hearts,฀always฀the฀helium฀hope that฀something฀will฀happen.฀A฀bacchanalian gambol฀on฀the฀green,฀Brueghel’s฀rotund bodies฀stomping,฀codpieces฀rising฀to motion฀and฀rhythm฀like฀the฀heads฀of curious฀cobras.฀Life฀is฀like฀that—surprisingly inflatable.฀The฀used฀air฀that฀took฀refuge in฀my฀lungs฀now฀bellows฀past฀cilia and฀rose-petaled฀gills฀to฀snake฀its฀way to฀a฀fetus฀where฀it฀bubbles—part฀star, part฀amoeba,฀light฀that฀shouts฀and฀cell that฀gropes฀across฀laboratory฀slide as฀I฀grope฀now฀to฀say฀it—how฀we฀take฀in the฀stringy฀syllables,฀this฀pulsing฀cord, to฀send฀it฀out฀again.฀I฀hold฀it฀here, bell฀and฀clapper,฀mouth฀and฀tongue. ...

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