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Why She Hurries Out, Then Home

She's always expecting disaster,

blood scribbled on walls,

an empty carcass hung from a lamp,

roof and bricks collapsed, all she owns

shredded and burnt.

Watching others' children
on their way to school,

stiff in their snowsuits,

reach to hug their parents goodbye,

she hurries out, then home,

counts the blocks, forces her hands

in her pockets (everyone's safe, she is safe).

She's always resisting what's criminal in her,

a small gray cloud waiting at the gate.

-- Martha Rhodes



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