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Why I learned to spit
Daniela Buccilli

My great Argentinean uncle spat
Over an open lidless toilet seat
In the basement bathroom beneath a house
Whose halls were paved in broken marble chips,
stolen from the Clark Building's restoration site.
This cement mixer hurled the muck of morning,
part dew from the Patagonian plain,
part river water of the Allegheny,
and sent the deposit to Highland Park
Reservoir. Every morning I heard the
hurricane from the bowels of his chest and was
afraid. Like a meteorite with a tail,
it slapped the porcelain and reminded
the forces that name this city he existed.

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