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So It Went

By ololiviv, Greenwich, CT

An aged version
of my grandmother sat waiting
for my sister and me on the stoop
in front of the place you probably
didn’t call home.

I knew you were in there,
upstairs perhaps,
your body now bloated from
the pills that dissolved inside of you,
to stop those voices,
to make you safe.

The rest of them called you
an animal,
said you needed a leash,
a muzzle.

You hadn’t even met
Your newborn niece,
who had since turned two.

It’d been seven years for us—
I couldn’t even remember your voice,
which Grandma said was sweet,

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