Summer 1991 • Vol. XIII No. 3 PoetryJuly 1, 1991 |

Unfinished Grief

A woman holds her weepingbraids, for hair is also water falling. One womanmourning is an unripe thicket. A woman hisses at shadowshiding in the fog. Many women are an army,tumbling through the fields. A woman with small eyes looks at her son, remembering bread. But women are a circle of yeast. Eggs shoot up in moist corners. A woman runs after a knife, trying to cut evenly. Womenprepare to bleed, foldingtheir batting, begetting. A woman follows her voice, screaming through alleysas she collides into grief. When women fall, they shatter. A woman slit by glassstreams blood beneath the moon's sticky glow. Women forge a current from their pain. A woman twists in water,nipple to knee, thinking of nothing. Women are the islands in a lake, spongy earth pockets, pungent and warm. A woman remembers to turn on the oven as she begins swimming out. Preservers are holes. Our bodies are holes. A womanwith small eyeslooks at her son,remembering his father. 

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By Marilyn Nelson Waniek

A woman holds her weepingbraids, for hair is also water falling. One womanmourning is an unripe thicket. A woman hisses at shadowshiding in the fog. Many women are an army,tumbling […]

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