A Woman's Work

See my women
thin-lipped as knife blades.
Covering mirrors,
pouring Tipples
down their alleyway
throats.
Their cries arrested;
held in a line-up.
Dressed tomorrow
for no washing
to be
done today.
Opening windows,
a wake for an empty room.
For the first time praying
their kitchen abandoned,
for the songs
to stop.
No lamenting
for laughter
or for sleep,
but for white linen
rituals and hands
tying ribbons.
For pine heavy with body,
for the wail
of common cries.
See, my women
run through with
grief.
When a war is over
it is hard
to know where
the dead
are buried.