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PERSONAL REPRESENTATIVE
Danielle Sellers
After my father’s funeral, in the backyard I grew up in, Bermuda grass
up to my ankles and slick with rain,
I came upon the cane toads poolside,
their pimpled bodies shocking, poison glands
matte under moonlight. Looking for girls,
throats puffed and fell, their trills like diesel engines.
They coughed and pissed the deck. They cried
like humans when I killed them with his spade,
just like my father said they would.
