Old
Women Weep
Far
beyond forbearance,
I
mimic the wall of incumbrance.
The
drones fall on unseen hands.
Days
fade like broken stones.
Like
statues on the statuette,
I
don't see anyone, anything
beginning
to tire until the next day at hand.
I
fall like lions.
The
tired weep like
old
women waiting for a bite to eat
on
their way to work, women who are too
tired
to retire, women who can't think
about
anything but their husband,
getting
them ready to bed, to work, to eat.
Sometimes
their children play. But all day,
they
work, having their hands tied in knots,
only
to make minimum wage,
to
go home and feed their children on bread
and
eggs and milk.
But
the milk sates the hunger.
It
fuels the fire that burns raw inside,
that
gets larger as they get older,
larger
still as the world with all of its noise.
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