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Stolen Sister
There will always be a red woman, vibrant
slinking near-naked among nude gray trees.
Where men walk, refusing her last grass rustle
sound out of reach from winter pre-dug graves.
Men haunted by and for her scratching plastic spirit
hang the red dress, torn trapped in witness branches.
Ashamed.
Men speak of her only in hushed places.
Men breathe in her last faces, avert eyes away from
the red hand paint print that covers her mouth. Cry.
War, in every taped up for vain hope, missing poster
she can never forever be, just another stolen sister.
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