by Rita Mookerjee Patrick Hendry and I know this because I can’t hear anything over the clatter of dead kid bones. The god planners sweep them up to grind into meal or paste to bolster the factory walls then fumble with hot clay, dropping foul-mouthed half-golems across America who stomp and spin to distract everyone from filthy water in Flint and caged babies at the border. The planners shrug, the country is rotten anyway. To the tune of prayer, the golems spear the dead and