The Dancing Widow
She knows every step, and a turn
gives the direction of the day.
Every twist in her mind should be straightened
for the children to follow
without stumbling.
She is a widow, dancing to the way of life.
The mark of her pain burns and runs
down her face to wet the old, dry land
that once gave her a reason to live and smile.
She nods her head from left to right, again to left,
back to right, again and again, whenever
she hears the voice of her crying children.
Her little ears are always open,
taking in thorns and honey, while her rough palms
remain forward and sway towards the rain and dust.
The widow dances with her children,
spinning around with them towards light and darkness.
She bathes them with the tears of her innermost happiness—
the holy water from the heart of a single mother,
which can wash away the pain of hunger and sickness.
Her empty kitchen has no rats,
but she kneels down daily to count the plates
and divide them by the number of heads
under her wings—only if she has
managed a few beans in a pool of soup.
The widow spreads her wings
to cover the children; she’s the protector,
the ambassador of the family.
Her voice is her children’s,
and her tears are their pain.
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