
“The children,”
She said, her hands wringing the sheets on the bed she would die in,
UNICEF commercial proclaiming the vanity of reasons to live for a century;
Tears crawling down sunken cheeks toward patches of flush,
Waiting like wan poppies in Chernobyl-grey valleys of the shadow.
He found her two days later, bringing in the supper tray, her face the colour of a primed Vermeer canvas, UNICEF commercial shedding pixels upon the perfect portrayal of injustice wreathed in venerability;
A poem by any other name cuts as deep.

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