The Deaths of the Other Children
The body dies
little by little
the body buries itself
joins itself
to the loosened mind, to the black–
berries and thistles, running in a
thorny wind
over the shallow
foundations of our former houses,
dim hollows now in the sandy soil
Did I spend all those years
building up this edifice
my composite
self, this crumbling hovel?
My arms, my eyes, my grieving
words, my disintegrated children
Everywhere I walk, along
the overgrowing paths, my skirt
tugged at by the spreading briers
they catch at my heels with their fingers
