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Cousin, uncle, brother, fellow
townsman, I come to you this day,
deported with berry soil on my hands.
Somewhere between your lake in Armenia
and this place where there is a trail
of ash – almost chalk – to bring
the limbs back to fullness. Now,
your mother’s stomach is dried fruit
on your palette. Though swallows
glide and turn through the rope
still hanging in your barn, in
this ghostly light you are a shadow:
off white, then gray, then a wisp
of flame rising in the dust.
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