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Margaret Chula
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months after
he’s gone
the bar of Ivory soap
in his bathroom
still holding
the shape of his hands
when I was twenty
after many years after the cease fire
refugees from Chechnya
return to rubble
sparrows weave the hair of children
into their spring nests
saying good-bye
on the table between us
an amaryllis bud
just beginning
to open
while sitting zazen
idle thoughts follow my breath
through the twilight hours
and then the cry of geese
as they enter darkness
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