by Jeff Burt
What is her body
doubled on itself
stooped from picking
hunger from the fields
stiffening like clay
waiting for the brilliant
sunshine to break it?
What is her body
head perpetually bowed
slunk on a levee
with thoughts and chin
sinking to the concussive
depression of dark water?
What is her body
formed like a question mark
thin as worn thread
once sewn into fabric
now pulled from the cloth
spooling over the river
tatterdemalion adrift
waiting to touch down?
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