a year since
the god of
starving dogs

the person i was
left behind like
so much
shed skin

the person i am
content to sit by
this second story
window
at twilight

willing to believe
the ovens will
never be fired up
again

and next door
a baby cries
or maybe a mother

and two days ago
the first body
of the season
was pulled from
the river and
named

a small moment
buried beneath
centuries of
brutality but it
stays with me

whatever can’t be
forgotten
worried to death
instead

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