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The Poetess Counts To 100 And Bows Out

The poetess gathers interim herbage,
aged bread, ash right from the knife,
herbs for the outcomes and the first rites.
Maybe she likes the legacy the strong ones claim,
the studious group, hands free, hearts shut.
Who, he or she? oathbound, bound for the future:
Scions of a bitch baying so sweetly for the word, begging how
to get to the saint, her mistful tongue.
Last night there were stones on a nation’s back,
much coal smeared on far village cheeks.
But then they gave thanks, shook hands, told some lies,
pulled back June and July for hunger. That there might be hunger.
The good girl counts to 100 and bows out.
The bad girl counts to 100 and bows out.
The poetess counts to 100 and bows out.

Ana Enriqueta Teran

(A completely striking book cover, the first volume of her work translated into English, here.)

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