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The Refugees
Samakab and Sagal
landed in old Montreal --
papers stamped “Refugee”.
Greeted with rapid fire questions –
Quand?
Pourquoi?
Comment?
Mentir?
Prouver?
No freeloading
or sponging
off benevolent us!
Somalia is so far away now
and the French tastes
like cold wood.
Two against this north --
protected and exposed.
One year later, Samakab
looked to his long legged,
raven-skinned wife and said,
“Tu n'as jamais ete de plus belle."
His white breath hung in the night air
on rue Sainte-Catherine.
Thirteen
she's
dead
thirteen, never kissed a boy, just joined facebook,
new to wearing a bra, bald and thin she lay on that
bed of springs,ravaged like a chewed up tire on the
side of the highway, now she's memories, tears,the
twist in a stomach, a painful ache when swallowing
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