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Ma e odi

This is our garden: chalky, dry streets dotted with the colors of candy wrappers and beer cans. We have a lake that’s full of everything old and a river that will get you sick. Outside, we planted bars across our windows. Inside, there are too many children growing in too many directions to keep track of. This is our garden: makeshift fences and cold nights under a roof that barely keeps out the sky. Our garden grows: miles of tin shacks and trees that bloom whispers of what will we eat and where can we go? This is ours, our garden of dust.

Ma e odi Gracelyn Kuzman

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Poetry 63

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