They shrilled for seventeen years underground. When they rose that warm June afternoon—dozens, then hundreds—no one listened. So they screamed louder. The town buzzed, trembling like spent paper, then fell still. Forgetting helped. It was better that way. No one noticed the tears crawling down my cheeks, soft as legs.
Nathan Doyle (he/him) is a poet and writer from Boston, MA. He received a Scholastic Silver Key in Poetry and three Honorable Mentions. His work explores silence, survival, and the spaces between perception and memory. His debut poem is forthcoming in Feral Poetry. Find him on Instagram at @geekgumo.
