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Refuge of spices

The woman from Iraq tows

her children through the park.

Wind troubles her black

robes painting a ship

sailing on a green sea.

Her children run free as waves.

The woman sits by the lake

oasis in a strange land

lacking the hospitality of raisins and sweet tea.

She throws bread to two swans

that paddle her lostness

to the other side.

Allows solitude of swans

to carry her home where palms

and palaces welcome her

beneath the dome of blue sky.

Feels the desertion of exile

beneath her breast

beneath her fingernails

the refuge of spices.

© Anne Powell

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