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Alain Ducasse

Dana Crum December 06, 2014
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With each bite of Halibut Duglere, I see
whores in El Salvador, bandits in Bangladesh;
I see a boy in Cité Soleil, squatting
in an aluminum shack. Made of dried
yellow dirt from Hinche, baked
on the brutal roof of Fort Dimanche,
cookies suck all moisture from his mouth
and puff his gut with lies. What the gut
believes the tongue denies.

What will I do? Dump my 401(k)
in the World Food Programme chest? Move
to Port-au-Prince, hand out rice sacks?
I’ll finish this fish and go feed my cat.


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