by joyce carol oates
from women whose lives are food, men whose lives are money
there are those who die and are shoved
from us there are those who die and are
given new names there are those who die
and their dried nests burnt there are those
who die but never leave the house there are
those who die but curl beside us yawning and warm
there are those who spring into our fingertips
who live on a butterfly’s ingenious wings
whose shouts echo across the choppy river
there are those who die and are walking
with the sunlight across the room
there are those who die and are exiled
those who are held aloft in cages
those who scuttle with rats
those dragged from the harbor faceless
those whose unprotesting veins are opened
there are those who die but send messages
shredded and rainstained
held trembling in someone’s hand
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