Abstract
A month for funerals. Lightning strokes striking tenanted fields. Each Saturday we passed printed pamphlets, faces coming off on our hands: Rre Modise, seventy years a dark unpeeling. The sound of spoons. Morning, one distant shot pierced the heart of? No. Morning, we killed a bull for the funeral feast. Such a wide circle to feed. Relatives mud-streaking the windows to sign grief. Inside, the old story. The black-wrapped widow shaving children's heads. Scalps flickering, smooth bones turning a loose socket, blank new world, the too familiar room. What it's like without. Women wake in the borrowed soldiers' tent
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