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old asian woman,
crossing the street unhurriedly at an intersection,
cars on both sides, like moses opening up the sea.
in her life, she's killed one thousand bugs in her palm
broken four hearts,
seen her own blood on three different continents.
she never thought she'd live past seventy,
and constantly anticipates her legs to give out underneath her feeble yet heavy bag of bones.
shaking, she crosses the street lazily at an intersection,
and with my body pressed against the window in my room, i watch her, knowing i'd never live past forty.