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Pearl Karrer | BombaHer hands shape the bomba—
wattle of brush and limbs
daubed with cowdung. It rises
inside the thorn fence
like a loaf of bread, top
rounded, cracked, crusty brown.
Several dot the Masai compound.
She angles the entrance
sharply. Spears must stand
by the entrance; tall men,
duck low. Inside,
the earth floor
cools her bare feet.
Rocks from the dry wadi
circle a central fire.
Over time, its soot blackens
ceiling and walls. With no
windows or chimney, smoke
drives out mosquitoes and flies.
Little by little the carbon
will blind her eyes.
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