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“The black players of France are also black players for the entire black world.”
—Grégory Pierrot

Too much rain over Moscow but a prime minister
kisses the champions on their foreheads.
His dark suit slick with water.
The champions are soaked as if they’ve

floated from the sea but they are jubilant.
So many Africans are floating in the sea.
Are drowning among plastic      whitening coral.
These champions know of the drowning           the desperation

that comes from besieged land           those
who wish them besieged.
Not them       not today          but.
How canons blast gold foil squares

that stick to skin       ground.
It is my last Saturday in Morocco.
We are praising victory.
How much gold are we worth?

Myronn Hardy’s most recent book of poems, Radioactive Starlings, was published by Princeton University Press.

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