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In Those Years
Margo
Solod & Carolyn Ogburn
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Like old women we sit and stare,
to tell whether there is something
to talk about would be to tell
the sort of secrets we learned by slipping
to the top of the stairs late at night, or hiding
in the dark behind doors
just slightly open to the light outside.
We sit and stare at each other, at nothing,
The wind rackets through the windows,
Beneath the house a pattery scratch
collects itself, intensifies, then turns
from the monster that came out of our closets
in those years when we sat motionless
behind slightly open doors
into the nothing more than the cat
wanting in, wanting to share the warmth.
Needing
our glasses but not bothering
to pat the tabletop where they may be,
or the tops of our heads; Our hands remain
in our laps, like statues of hands.
It's not yet morning.
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