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Backfire
Rose Birgy
A car backfires
somewhere inside my grandmother’s mind
and rattles her memory
like the bars of a prison cell,
like her memory is the prison cell, the
patrolman, and the cellmate whose fists
make thunder in her skull.
Nothing about this disease
is quiet, nothing like white noise.
the comfortable things and faces
are temporary--
this museum constantly rotating
exhibits.
A car backfires and
my grandmother does not blink
does not
recognize the driver
does not hear us all
calling her name.
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