| Little Rituals |
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On these soft subterranean hills
beneath the opalescent spider egg stare of Earth-Moons, we grieve grey-robed, barefoot, tending loose patches of trinkets. |
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Small statues play,
their raised arms draped with bracelets and charms, amulets glitter obsidian and amethyst. |
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Water flows, carrying whispers
on slender aqueducts between temples. Hollow women touch their lips to marble wishes, remembering. |
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Thin ribbons are threaded
in ancient fertile spirals, binding stelae. |
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A child's song, part-laughter,
part-mother, father and abandonment, remains. The dome traps hymns like a killing jar one hundred miles square. |
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Deepest, darkest,
closest to the invisible source of all our lives, we grieve our children recklessly, carving mausoleums monuments, stone mannequins precious beads until we rediscover silence |
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Nothing is forgotten ~
every surface is scored a hundred times with names poetry and promises sigils of love for unvoiced dreams. |