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Black Hand

Anita Lipnicka

His black hand
on my white belly
and I can't even pronounce his name

The saxophone
keeps on playing playing
origami birds fly above my head.

I'm 15
and I miss home
but only happy letters get across the sea

If not your eyes
that saw it all
I could easily pretend it was just a dream.

Dear Anna,
It's good you don't keep in touch.
How would we talk about it now?