Poetry: Untitled

Bedridden, I ate nothing for days.  Gradually came paper-thin
noodles boiled in lemon water, salt-less crackers they called
saltines and half cups of chamomile.  Unable to escape I assumed
nothing happened in the world beyond my bedroom.  Light
changed as it always had, doves cooed in the hollows of the house,
once the sound of a woman laughing, two men yelling in a strange
tongue, the old church bells down the road and the occasional car
passing by, but the restless silence seemed to be the most
unbearable thing.

-W.J. Preston, Apple Valley Review

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