She Runs from the River

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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