Angelic stone women beckon, smiling,
I brush their mossy feet, my fingers burn.
I touch the markers of our buried children,
My cup spilled, the glass clear, I beg to learn.
The wine dark fluid rills into the green
earth, staining the strewn seeds of the unborn.
A sour, black, bottled rage, my spleen envenomed,
cries for all children deprived of their form.
Now , teach us each to walk on and listen
to the grass growing, for it does not mourn.
Haunt us with the memory of the fire.
Remember us thus: our faces ashen,
We who have been through this and did not burn.
wcw-1999