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  • I was so quiet, quiet when my mother died.
    Then again when my father died.
    So quiet. I could hear sunlight beating on the window pane,
    I had a furrowed brow and I walked with a whisper,
    and if there were birds,
    I told them
    be still.
    and so I now carry the memory
    of the ash can with my mother
    and the medical students, dissecting, learning
    from a 91 year old mans body.
    Today I am even quieter.
    The water, the light, the earth making
    such shattering sounds
    such thunderous vibrations
    confusing clattering
    What can I do
    but whisper.

    This poem was written in response to my story, Howling, by my friend A T, who prefers to remain anonymous. The artwork was also done by A T, and the self-portrait in the characters section. This is entirely A T's post except that I posted it, since A T does not have a cowbird account.
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