A Mustard Seed is a Funny Thing
Poetry, if not in form, in matter
Saturday, July 9, 2011
Uncured tobacco, steaming in homes,
Little girls, children, beaten by bones.
Tears cannot make a breath draw smooth.
Tears can still bring something new.
An empty cry, a bitter slap.
Bloody water drips on the well-used map,
running from her home down South.
She swears to do the same.
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