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As the tapeworm is to our stomach, we are the parasite
to the chicken—we take the route of least resistance
and continue sustaining—host a shell, its ghost white
stomach blooming with worms—wriggling parasites
these apologies we issue to the wind—like bright
lilies evicted from stamen—loved ones, let’s face fact:
our stomachs and mouths: unintentional parasites
we are chicken and we are shit; we sustain—and resist.