Recognising the Damage . . .

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This is the promised land.
This has taken everybody’s time
to arrive.
These are the children who survived
the desert march.
These are their mothers.
This, here, is the garden we promised them.
These are the trees.

Bow down,
and feel the bones crumble
beneath your knees.

These are the remains
of those who died waiting.
The waste and debris of rage.

This is the dust-bowl . . .





All the little Loves.

“The little red dots are all the loves I want to give to my mother. But she’s not there for me. She never was.”











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