Lise LIU : She runs from the river

spilling from her mouth, her nose,
her eyes, each hot slick pore

a wound secreted, her whole body running
from the count seven hundred thirty-

one in the living streets, shrouded
in motorbikes, in busfuls of strangers

who cry out her name, the many names
of God and that brief blameless river

in a country she has never seen,
where the water is so sweet, so cold

the living people fall to their knees
and drink.