The bonnets come to stare,the dark skirts also,the upturned faces in between,mouths closed so tight they’re lipless.I can see down into their eyeholesand nostrils. I can see their fear. You were my friend, you too.I cured your baby, Mrs.,and flushed yours out of you,Non-wife, to save your life. Help me down? You don’t dare.I might rub off on you,like soot or gossip. Birdsof a feather burn together,though as a rule ravens are singular.
-Margaret Atwood
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