There is a school, a hospital, a street,
(Even a brothel, you say?)
Maybe two or more than two
of each of these
in one or more than one town
across the whole nation
of the people’s memory
of she
whose name now
is a discarded wheelbarrow
a spent firebrand
a hollow shell
that has seen better days.
Those she inspired (or inspires)
now conspire against her
and look away from her
embarrassed
as they tuck wads of banknotes
(Ill-gotten gains, you say?)
into their soiled briefcases.
For these, too,
her bones were resurrected.