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Battleground in March of 2022

The water has stopped.
A burned out roof is the color of squirrel.
Smudges of spring grass entice me to drink
but I walk in that low bow.

Today we have crackers, canned meat,
and water.
We are in our home again,

but coming back to the work of war,
it is the talent of a different day.
We have come back from a memory that remains.
Ancestry has been raped.

Our beloved digs by a fruit tree looking for her pulse,
she lingers at a soft branch.
I anchor the door.

--Bernadine P., Adult