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Nikumaroro, a poem by Andrew Chapman

for HRC

by Andrew Chapman

Sand and salt, no 
landing strip to speak
of little girls in goggles,
they waited, they still do.

400 miles short, horizon 
won’t reveal the sun 
boils, spits bitterness, 
leaks gas on the 

sand. Faded photos, un-
built statues fill fake 
memories, we wrote down 
too soon.

What remained you 
gave to the crabs, buried
nothing for us to find, to
point out and say was yours.