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Marylin Butler


Camping Out

It is midnight when we open the tent. The babysitter (herself so young in her sleep), the small boy next to her. Never was time so still. For a while I do not move. Innocence, the horizon of this life, is silent. Whatever its meaning birth is aching [...]

My Father’s Canary

There was my father's canary in our house, in a cage, in the kitchen hanging on the wall. And our cat, always on the checkered tiles below it. Why the cat lived in the house was a mystery to me. The death of a bird meant the death of a man to my fat [...]