For the women of the world
Last night a woman wept. A continuum. Eve, of just-born earth and of consciousness and of feel. A taste of salt on her lip for up from her brokenness ran the tears that dripped down and wet her front. Hurt, so that it became anger; unfair, she judged, and yet she reasoned the ripping hurt may cast her incapable of right reckoning. Cycles. Explosions of grief and hot sorrow a brass hardness so that nothing came from her eyes–they were hot-sand dry–and yet she wept.
The cry tore her and was a bundle–the cry of fissure and Baby Holden and sunsets and peach juice and wound and ascendancy. Of songs unsung and sermons not preached. She wept for her sin and because gathered notes make a symphony and that scrawl by genius has voice. The Louve. And chisel. Chalk on sidewalks and little girls skipping.
Of Trapani and Haney–Brothers both–and rain and first snows and that sometimes on stormy nights the clouds move and the moon is still there. She wept for her sons and for her ancestors and for cruel disease. Last night a woman wept.
Of futility. Except. Except for this and that . . .
Before I had seen this video or heard its story, I had begun this piece. While it is applicable in a broad sense, it is not so in every regard.