Bound up, faceless women
- crow-winged and windswept -
look for the unborn
(the pale serious child
with a chip on his shoulder)
marking X’s with pieces of chalk
on the backs of unsuspecting
hand-holding couples, homebound.
Will you tilt and fall on your side?
Lie there breathing; lie there as the moon rises?
So many of you, and yet never a trace
of your expirations. Where do you go to die?
Past sundown, members of the flock turn circles,
float above the treetops, fall silent as nightbirds.
In the morning, not a cloud in the sky.
A few crows preen themselves at the side of the road.
Shirts raise empty sleeves on the blind woman’s clothesline.
She opens the door and calls, “Entrez, mes enfants.”
© Sophia Roberts
all right reserved
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