Her asters bloom
in the red squares of the clay earth.
She gapes at their gaunt petals,
hoping to gain sympathy
from the slightest sway in their wilting stems.
Her core's blackened surface
a fragile mask, a crusted shell.
Trees cringe with fear
and weep beneath the paling sky.
Unaware of the burning asters at her naked feet,
without a hand to yank her from this infected womb,
within these inherited boundaries,
she is forced to wait.
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