An old woman sits dead-eyed
near an upturned cardboard box,
rosary beads clicking through her fingers.
The cardboard covers the corpse
of an infant. There’s not enough fabric
to shroud the body.

On the streets of Port-au-Prince, lost
children tremble as if aftershocks originate
from their broken bodies. Men dig
through remnants of home
for fathers and daughters and strangers.
The crevices of their hands

crack like fault lines.

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