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by Amy Schmitz
Villages disappear. Villages may be a luxury. Soldiers don't speak English
at four in the morning. Our passports are mango meat. A woman's youngest kid
turns backwards, stares at our skin. I'm tired enough that stars curve into graves.
Soldiers inscribe each of our names into a book thick with trains. Where am I
may be a misunderstanding. Where am I may be as irrelevant as place. Our passports
are foothills we cannot eat. Well-positioned foothills may be a luxury. A woman's
youngest wears green/yellow/red. I'm tired enough I think his name is Jeffrey.
Soldiers burn their coffee out of chicory. Soldiers lie down on yellow grass to sleep.
Where I am may be kidding me. Where I am may be fundamentally ugly. I'm tired
enough a grave seems reasonable currency. I'm tried enough I almost give up
my seat. Jeffrey reaches out and touches me.