Keen

One day our flesh and bone were nearly,

then dearly, cut away by hands we made.

One day strange hands filleted our breasts,

beloved friends, from our narrow rib cage.

Our men hold ground, grasp our feet

lifting off, pull us down from pain to arms,

from frayed rope, from blood, from knife,

from gun smoke, from sky, from fruitless hope.

Sisters! we cry, mountains away, our hands

too far to reach each other’s face and crown.

Distance requires wailing into phones

No no, no no, breath-broke, broken stones

rolling through our animal throats—pitched

grief washed voices only women know.

Do not mistake this duet for a song. If flesh

were not going or already gone, if someone

stood outside our panes of glass, peered in,

watched the scene unfold in silent mime:

our hands pressing slim machines

against our ears, our pacing out a pattern

on the rug, our gaping mouths, spasm spines,

eyes clamped shut, heads thrown back

could be mistaken for our ancient belly laugh.