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This poem is taken from PN Review 156, Volume 30 Number 4, March - April 2004.

Whole Words Carol Rumens

(For Rebecca)

Another mute bites down, a new mutation
Roots out its own tongue. We blank such losses
As `friendly fire'. The language we shared round
With such imperial fairness, keeping only
What was ours, can't not be ours. But now it can't be ours.

We asked to be a voice, even a footnote
To February, a true note. That we drowned
In our own throats perhaps should not amaze us,

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