Stories
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I grew up in
isolated
North-eastern
Montana.
Everybody
knew your story.
I sneaked
out of CYC and drove
Dad’s car,
crammed with friends,
Up and down
Main Street.
Somebody
told my Dad,
Better keep
a tight rein
On your
filly there.
When my baby
died,
Women from a
hundred miles
Came to me,
held me,
Cried with
me, told me,
I lost a
baby too.
Paradoxically,
In isolated
communities.
There is no
privacy.
Today I live
in Mexico,
On the edge
of a rural village.
I live by
myself. In solitude
I find strength
and beauty.
Now and
then, I feel lonely.
Nobody knows
my stories
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