HPN

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Poetry of Issue #8        Page 12

EBOLA

The baby cradled in her arms was dead
She was weak near death was sobbing dry tears
No, no, no, don’t take her
We have to
You can’t bury her
It’s not allowed
I have money
Please let me keep her
The soldier extended his hand
She placed the money in it
He closed his fingers tightly
Move on
He said to the other soldiers
She stood there cradling her dead child
Looking imploringly at the sky.

  Howard Pflanzer