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The truth belongs
to these graves
by Patria Rivera

          in the eyes of sunflowers above the mound,
in the sheltering womb
among abandoned slabs on the ground,
the silent sacrifice of the heart.
                    Unnamed,
you were born in guilt, a small grave
     among cracks of mimosa.

Above you, she lies immured, only the cold
wind for company.
               Far off,
the acacia trees, stolen nights, fire burning.

Whiff of wild amaranth fills unkempt graves,
encircles the violet dusk. The tremolo
of the bamboo trills through the leaves
as crows scud past a cloudburst.

               I offer you a name.
Naming you will not subvert your memory,
     here, where the wormwood climbs
the grass-carved mountains.

 



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