November 2, 2023


The sun apologized for its annulment, taking care

to hide its face. The dusk cleared its throat, while

the wind turned, collecting sticks. She heard first

the monotone buzz of the lone mosquito. Soon,

she knew, they’d pool her ankles. Like locusts,

they would waste her homesick heart, and in her

wayward western eardrum,

                                        pronounce to her the rain

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A Journal of International Poetry
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