FROM JOSH SMITH’S DINOSAURS, A PORTFOLIO THAT APPEARED IN THE WINTER 2024 ISSUE OF THE PARIS REVIEW. ALL PHOTOGRAPHS BY FARZAD OWRANG, COURTESY OF JOSH SMITH.

After a while English departs and you
Find yourself in a realm. Like the Wild Boy
Reaching for a potato in the mirror.
Someone was holding it behind his head.
He never stopped to let it cool but made
Little cries to indicate it was burning him.
Still, it was his favorite food. After an hour
Of reading out loud your carefulness
Is mere sound, the city you have built
Whistles. Between chapters I wrapped up
And shivered, did not eat, so I could go on
Speaking what seemed the whole language
At once: tongue twisters, all observation.
“Party in the U.S.A.” was recorded in that booth,
Her platinum record hung on the wall.
Active shooter in my building, Mary texted,
Just as we broke to stretch. Fucking America,
We said, and settled in to read the father
Chapter. The Wild Boy would be cared for
By a priest, later, but first, a school
Gardener. Scenery on the way to Paris
Did not impress him, he caught a light
Case of smallpox, and insisted on having
His potato next to him at all times.
There are feats that seem impossible
Just before and after: 8,000 signatures,
Being alive. You cannot think about page
Numbers, your hunger, or Baby Peck,
Hysterical, trying to climb into your sister’s
Desk with a bottle of bourbon, to hide.
They are locked down, quiet, texting.
Why had it felt so urgent to be heard?
Hold on, baby, I said, and Paul:
“I once had an RPG shot at me
While dancing to ‘Party in the U.S.A.’ ”
We waited for word: OK, they got him.
And waited for word: I hate it here.
“The boy had grown quite fat now,
Loved to be tickled, laughed easily,
And apparently dreamed while asleep.”
They were saddened that he cared only
For his own survival, nourishment.
You could not die with your potato
Next to you, a potato meant one more day.
Little clouds breathed out—cry cry!—
And there were jagged peaks.
Oh, it was all painful, mealy, wonderful.
How it contained—hot hot!—all
Custom, rivers of butter, green chives
Of trees, a gardener who had promised
Him a new home if he ever needed one.

Patricia Lockwood is the author of five books, including the novel Will There Ever Be Another You.