Major Jackson reads
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Whichever way our shoulders move, there’s joy. Make a soft hollow noise. We’ve our own hourglass and no one else to blame. I thought of our lives, caressing ruins through half-opened windows. I hear our prayers rising. I sing to you, now, like scented candles, your ferocious wolf. I no longer want this weather on my breath or the many recognizable texts of our celestial holes. A ceiling fan turns above. The arson is in us. This is the year I’ll contemplate the fire-fangled sky.