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Poetry

The thing I did for sorrow was silence.
The thing I did for sorrow,
the thing I did,
the silence.

I thought when replacing the pillow
under the sleeping girl’s head
it’s been a while
since kindness.

When my mother was sick
I didn’t go
I rolled over in my own bed
I thought she wanted

to be alone,
alone how I like to be
to keep my misery.
There’s not much overlap

in what we understand,
no guard against unloving
sticks piled up, the thatched
huts, my ingratitude.

 


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