spilling from her mouth, her nose,
her eyes, each hot slick pore
a wound secreted, her whole body running
from the count seven hundred thirty-
one in the living streets, shrouded
in motorbikes, in busfuls of strangers
who cry out her name, the many names
of God and that brief blameless river
in a country she has never seen,
where the water is so sweet, so cold
the living people fall to their knees
and drink.
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