Migration

The rains of spring leave me restless.

I can no longer look at the dead birds
Swallowed by man’s rushing river, how they
Swell in the woods behind my house.

I can no longer listen to men promise
That they are different,
That they are not killers of women.

When I Migrate, I will take every feather
With me. None will fall in the river:
Not a single soul will swell from my wings.

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