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| To think you've taken the two corners of the world |
| and pieced them together |
| and folded them before you |
| like a flag |
| that once waved over |
| stateless people. |
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| The Atlantic became the Pacific |
| and Haiti was a small town in New England. |
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| And you adapted |
| like a native, |
| your tropical smile slit open like the seam |
| of a bedroom pillow. |
| Your eyes like firecrackers on parade. |
| Your voice full of fables and Guy de Maupassant. |
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| My friend, I have not seen you since |
| you left the world for Port--au--Prince. |
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| Since your wrote, |
| I'll be on your way again. |
| At that moment I believed in voodoo, |
| the forbidden magical remedies |
| and shaking leaves. |
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| But now we drink another toast, |
| not to red, white and blue weddings, |
| but rather to dusk. |
| Faded purple spilling across the sky |
| like a wine stain. |
| Purple is the color of death, |
| the color of dried flowers and tired hearts. |
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| Do you know that I would walk all the way from Providence |
| speaking my finest Creole |
| if I could once again touch |
| the veins that flowed compassion into your hands |
| like little rivers |
| to the rhythm of the compas? |
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| My friend, I have not seen you since |
| you left the world for Port--au-Prince. |
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