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by Zhalih Mickunas
groan like a wolf after the grey blood spills
into its cold dirt.
The sun comes easing over the slope slickslow,
rolling us under its breast.
This pool of sand is my home.
I am relieved. The coyotes cry like tortured women at night.
My father brought us here. He sleeps.
My hair is heavy, he says we'll find a shower soon.
We're all a shade of dust. Mom is tired.
Dad says the war is coming.
They'll draft little girls, me.
I have a plan for escape.
I haven't met anyone my age since I was ten.