I usually just eat it like this. Kiwis with their skin on             seeds in spices turned black the squash
splitting its hairs from inside out just right there on the plate in its skin I usually eat it like that.
Usually the skin and all I’ll just eat it like that when we wake up. Raw franks             the real snappy
ones or the Vermont beef ones             the beef in Vermont ones like that with the skin on too. I liked
when you ate things just like that after we’d fallen asleep and woken up because you weren’t
afraid             dirty hairy sweet potato skins or morning acids acrid on shriveled green
whatever’s pink and gone sour             deadened legumes             lime halves in quiet disarray
whatever’s separated from that which lies underneath it             whatever’s separated from that
which cooks right there next to it

anything that grows the way grass does             that floats down brooks.

Ginger with its skin on downstairs             ginger with its skin on raw             the cooked the rotten. I
usually just eat it like that in a little fur coat that is             there’s no need to undress yet             I just
eat that on top of some rice             I just eat that with rice. Everything’s been left dirty enough to
eat             passed round the city like this on hands wheels laps crates pillows             been left clean
enough to lack             in tins of oil or tight plastic

I just eat it with my hands in front of the fridge light like that like a bear by a river or at a cafe for
sixteen fifty downtown like that like a girl.

Who am I my tail is melting in a sour broth             my morning stomach on two tortillas. You fried
me up with two eggs             flu eggs             you wanted to mix my oil and mustard at the lunch
counter             get me on hot salad at the sandwich shop             my ribs floated above your noodles
my shoulders have caught your snot by the open kitchen. I’m for the people in bits inside a
one-way street             or tied up in strings for not the people             I’m good for more than a buck
thirty don’t you think             you liked each other because you liked me.


Kath DeGennaro is a writer originally from Long Island. A graduate of The New School with her BA in The Arts, she currently lives in Brooklyn, where she is most often focused on documenting the Gowanus Canal.

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