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Lizett Garcia
Breast with me,
beating like a bird.
In our moment
all hope soared
with a fragrant moon
and kissing
was the mixing of culture.
At these depths
I felt what tore
at the threads
of your music.
I met the guns
of El Salvador.
I touched the pallid
flesh of your dead
riveted friends.
I hosted your nightmare
of butchers.
Your fingers are refined
for the making of music.
Your thumbs
are peasants,
ready for revolution.
Published Black Buzzard Press - 1982
Political- personification
Copyright ©
Thomas Wells
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