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Issue 19, Poesía | September 2016


Non Omnis Moriar

A field of almond trees 
like dendrites 
reaching towards their cessation 
balancing in the wind 
between grave site 
grape vines
and wood chips. 
Dwarfed lakes snake 
between hills and valleys 
to die, river beds 
bake and cook under  
the arid sun 
and the cattle with their
dirt–brown tillage 
sold to the east for hopes 
of water. 
And the woman! 
The woman sheds dusty 
tears that send lines 
of smut down her face.  
and she says 
not all of me. 
Not all of me.
Non Omnis Moriar