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A Poem: Witness 

My grandmother gathered
bread for sparrows.
At the end of the week, she scattered
dry crumbs in the yard.

Was she waiting for something unnamed to return?
A brother, a prisoner, a storm?
Some shy angel, freed from duty at the bar?

Or was this the road home—
word after word thrown out to the cold,
bones laid bare
for witness.
  • A poem by Christina Turczyn.


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