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This poem is taken from PN Review 257, Volume 47 Number 3, January - February 2021.

Burrs Togara Muzanenhamo and Rory Waterman
We are turning into ghosts here. The days mirror each other.
Silence sits flat like a stone on the horizon. Muting everything.
The house is cold and dark and quiet as a cave. My daughter
wakes up much later than usual. And as I am seated, writing
this to you, she’s still in bed – her body clock adjusted three
weeks back. After schools closed, she was so happy to be free

from the early morning rush – dressing as she ate breakfast,
the neighbours’ dogs barking and cars revving and speeding out
of wrought iron gates, traffic flooding streets as the sun cast
its eye through the kitchen window where my wife would shout
For Christ’s sake we’re going to be late. Faucets running.
Keys lost then found. Doors slamming. The general chaos of leaving.

All these things my daughter now comments on with a hint
of regret. Though she’s happy to go to bed late and wake up late –
though she’s adjusted to the quiet – there’s just one complaint
that constantly drags at her heels like an invisible weight. Eight

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