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At dawn when traffic lights burn like roses
I feel pity akin to love
For the little deviants of wild
Turkeys skulking around this city.
There is a mystery in being American
Equality in holiday decorations and drug stores
Freedom that says
But not without inflicting some harm on us
Where anyone can hunt down twenty school children
With three to eleven bullets opening up
Inside them at age six or seven.
As I throw off the covers and feed the dog, a year goes by.
I haven’t done time out west with the buffalo
But I’ve carried mice to the open fields.
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“Never do unto me what your uncle has done to us.” A family member’s disappearance leads to personal revelations.
Critics say human rights discourse blunts social transformation. It doesn’t have to.
“My mother has not slept for seven days.” A Taiwanese woman’s brother avoids calling their mother, setting off an insomniac unraveling.