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93 Non-Combatant a woman crosses the long road to fetch water for her family barricaded in the refugee camp as she walks toward me she raises her hand to shield her eyes a gesture almost a salute— between us words are too thin crumble in the air like dust underfoot— she pauses for half a second as if to say: What are you doing here? in the soggy light that shelters the road I wonder if she can see me frowning— her baby is swaddled in a sling of bright colors and her hair braided like coils on a barber shop pole presses against the tip of the dull black automatic—her only true protection slung over her shoulder and down nearly to the tucked waist of a faded flower skirt—its hem grazing the top of calloused feet—a baby on one hip the gun on the other—the new African:: after she passes I wonder how many will forget her beauty and remember her gun ...

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