To correctly open a package oframen,

acollege student showed me, hold it, fly up, in both hands

and snaptill your knuckles ram each other. You will feel the bones

inside—sardinespines—dislocate before they break. 

Didn’t my Lord deliver Daniel

And thecorrect way to eat it—nobody has to tell me this—

deliverDaniel is notfrom the pot over the sink deliver Daniel

but asif someone boiled it for you Didn’t my Lord deliver Daniel

that’sbefore alimony, before the rumfled face and why not

everyman al dente andafter grace.

Nobodyever survives. —Margaret Atwood

                                                Ikemefunacertainly didn’t

make itthrough the forest, pot of palm wine on his head,

with anentourage of slammer mouthed men who led

him tobelieve he was going home.  A lie,but they meant

well.  Machete to the neck.  Then the unnecessary announcement

Myfather they have killed me, present perfect, as if he were already dead.

And goodweather, maps, company, trusty ship, work permits

didn’tget all the Africans across, packed—like the Escher print

of birdsmorphing to fish—so you can’t tell what you’re seeing,

lostproperty, stolen goods.  Even ifthey survived they didn’t survive

to talkabout it.  And the driver of thetinted window chrome

rimmedblack SUV who chose to eat a bagel in the traffic and not ride

theshoulder was still pulled over.  Noseatbelt.  A small thing

relativelyspeaking.  Easy to fix.  Don’t go out.  Don’t go home.