Cure and Curry
by Natalie Rose Richardson
My father is a nod, a jilt. Bop.
Insists that 90s music is the jams they
will drop when I have children. Cancel
the station with rap-crap, the cure
for stiff-skin is the blunk of funk and
lilt of lips that pickles like sound-curry.
Read, listen, share, create, and be on watch.
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