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Where the Mallow Grows

by Sharmagne Leland-St. John

we bury our dead
in shallow graves
in fallow fields
where the mallow
bends and waves

in tidy rows
we bury our dead
in tattered clothes
their shattered lives
and battered skulls

neath white crosses
rest weary souls
bodies torn with gaping holes
with sightless eyes and slackened jowls
we bury our dead where the mallow grows



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