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Poems by Valentina Gnup
Lament of a Bare Branch
On my way home, I will not steal a red pear for my wife
I will not place a ring of kisses on the throat of my wife.
She will not pour my ginger tea or stir steaming noodles
I will not watch her watch clouds dress the moon, my wife.
In our bath, she will not wash my head, chest or ankles
I will not softly trace the gentle hills of her spine, my wife.
I will not gather our babies like fat bushels of sweet grain
She will not lift their hungry mouths to her breast, my wife.
At the stream, I will not draw herons beside our children
She will not find crickets hidden in their hands, my wife.
Like a branch in wet snowfall, I will not bow in sorrow
When she leaves this world, I will not bow for my wife.
I will curl around myself in sleep, as wolves do in winter
I will not tell the dragon stories of my dreams to my wife.
Dedicated to the bare branches: young men in Asia and India
who will never marry or become fathers because of the ongoing
genocide of women in those cultures
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