How quiet you are, my aunt said.
It was true —
sounds weren’t coming out of my mouth. And yet
they were in my head, expressed, possibly,
as something less exact, thought perhaps,
though at the time they still seemed like sounds to me.
Something was there where there had been nothing.
Or should I say, nothing was there
but it had been defiled by questions —
Louise Gluck, Faithful and Virtuous Night, p 13