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Hiromu Molrishiti found
her father later that
day lying in a grassy
field. He'd been on
a street car near
downtown, on his way
to work. She
cremated him in
her garden that
night, his eyes
like those grilled
fish. Others slept on
Hijiama Hill, looked
down on the place that
once was their city
lay calling for
mothers, calling
for children calling
for water then not
calling at all.

      — Lyn Lifshin