we stand in a line:
the widow, the sister, the healer, a niece;
the daughter yet unformed
dressed in white with our heads
tucked under heavy cloth

narratives of grief
twitch across our vocal cords
like a rope being looped and pulled

we turn to whisper small shrieks
in one another' s ear with
clipped tongues and
our sorrows emerge a
small silent wind

in this palliative unit of women grieving
for their men, for their sons
lymphocytes are transfused for tears
and a new plasma forms

maybe metaphor will save
us all