"You're quiet," she let dribble out on the floor,
Only half-kidding, but allowed to bid her fears farewell.
Unaware that the genie kept her quiet in the smoke,
I choked the words until their memory was made a folklore.
The churches were all going out of business,
No one to wipe the dust from the pews
Or to give the pleasure of metal on cloth
In hopes of keeping a superstitious cough away.
There was something pulling at my chest without a key,
And my ribs rattled like the old cellar door
As I started slipping under from security.
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