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ISSUE:  Autumn 1996

We ride on tanks over the new rice,
break down the dikes so the dirty water
runs in with the clear. They run beside us,
little claw gestures toward their mouths,
This is what we eat you are running over.
We look back without expression.
Mamasan stands in front of the lead tank,
hoe raised over her head.
It is not her time to die. The tank stops,
driver comes out of the hatch to look.
Mamasan makes a sound like an old hinge,
shuffles forward,
breaks the tank’s searchlight with her hoe.


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