There are flies on her face
And arms and
Legs
And although
She is still,
I know
They swarm—
Standing in the doorway
Framed by dilapidation,
She stares somewhere far off
Into dusty plains.
Into a landscape
That I know
Only from pictures
That hang, framed—
Still and silent,
Black-and-white—
You are in the archives,
Little girl.
Tell me how you tore your dress
Tell me where your parents are
Do your feet hurt from the dry ground?
I can see you have no shoes.
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