The structure I liked about Carolyn Forche's piece is the short, journalistic sentences that the piece uses.
I turn. Opening the door swiftly.
What's behind the door will be squished with the power
from my swing. No body there.
A car honks on the street. A washing machine,
or the dishwasher, beeps. Or the alarm
from the door. Too many beeps.
Outside the stars wink knowing
I keep secrets, and even though
they don't know,
they know.
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