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Sarajevo (Summer 2016)

She pointed, two hundred meters: there. I was

fifteen. We were drinking wine outside

a bookshop. The shelling lasted

all night. The ruby-colored sunset, the river

close. The theater so crowded

people sat in one another’s laps. Bombs fell so near every

few minutes, parts of the stage splintered.

I’m leaning on a car, cool

metal, smoked glass. The actors,

she tells me, didn’t flinch, didn’t miss

a single line. The audience

didn’t move, didn’t

make a sound.

You’re here; you survived;

and you’re there —

floor shaking, streets buckle —

watching a play that

for eternity will last.

Maps

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