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A happy night when her
head is clear and he
waves his hands to
catch a richshaw, the rain
is soft enough for her to
remember to want
things decades after when the currents
in her brain get severed
and all that remains is
the rickety history
building up to her yellow
sheets and red sheets,
dripping pupils like
the feet on the ground.
Her eyes don’t move,
she dreams of a son, he is
running, but without a
heft, not moving, no
rain on his tongue, sores
on both their feet.