By Tatiana Suarez-Pico
Her hair matched the burnt car
black silk strands which ends rested gently on her shoulders
like small hands, palms up, this from afar
cupping dark blood and battlers.
It looked as though there was a white sheet behind the car
a cheap set in a theater
Hope concentrated in the space without the glass surrounded by tar
but you could only read her preoccupation hither
Hope that punctured thoughts distilled from her eyes
her ears were deaf to the mutiny
Silver dotted pleas, stars, jumped like gadflies
disappearing in mid air briskly.
Her eyes smeared with pain were encrusted in her "skin" crayon face
Soon all that worry will fall like white cement on the land that is her birthplace.
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