He holds your head underwater and the golden cross
around your neck clatters against your teeth.
Your hair, spread like a frond, your hands, clenched tight
behind your back, fingernails imprinting skinny moons
on your palms. The man’s touch on the back of your head
radiates with a holy fire. You feel it searing
straight through your skin and on to your heart,
which flutters with the same rhythm as the wheat in Nanterre.
You fill your lungs with home.
There is no need to panic.
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