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Ghetto Violence

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Folding the dress, sleeves in, bottom up:
A perfect square
Unaware
That the circular tires
were bringing them closer, closer

And she takes the cash, tucks it neatly in
the right slots
It is smooth and soft,
Just like her baby’s head

And he leans out of the rolling box
with her future behind a barrel
the circular tires pound past her shop
and there are shots

Glass cuts beautiful slashes all over her face
and her arms,
Her peach-skin, is bleeding iron juice
A perfect hole in her tender breast

Soft like the baby’s head…soft like the baby’s head…
their steps are soft and the money is bundled and swathed

A mother’s cry is lost in a pool
and she doesn’t want to know
what’s going to happen to her own bundle…





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