Sinful women.
Always unbraiding the night.
Leavened breasts hurry the dark
and the light of daybreak whips
at lovemaking but
something hums against the silence…
Oh girl.
I should have told you.
There is a balm to stay the hurt,
to ease the swelling, but nothing
for those hollowed eyes,
that plaintive hum.
Oh girl, my girl. Listen
to the mournful women,
meet the quiet eye.
