—My form against those at border—

[arbitrary line] [perish]

	knocking among other refugees

	—the islands
	—no one to help
	—thousands buried by water

A butchered animal at my feet.

Wolves howl. Soot falls from sky.

The rescuers are never prepared.
And we, here, amid a failure of images.

Scrub a spot whiter than before.
Demarcate before there is nothing left.

Breach into white sand. The dead ache so. 

From Good Stock Strange Blood (Coffee House Press, 2017). Copyright © 2017 by Dawn Lundy Martin. Used with the permission of Coffee House Press.