i

By what name do we call the girl
when she comes back?

Is it cruel now to call her Joy,
to call her Precious,
to call her Patience?

Do we turn her old clothes to rags
to wash her with or break
the bed where her feet now dangle over
and burn it to ash?

Do we sing a praise song or dirge
when the girl comes back
with her mouth sewn her eyes sunken shut and
her eyes sunken in?

Do we welcome her home
when there is none
and forget how savage
the privilege of weeping
before the one whose tears have dried up?

When the girl comes back
whose arms does she run into?

Who will call her daughter
and call her daughter daughter too?

Who will offer up their back for her to climb on?

Whose milk has not yet curdled?
Who will nurse this broken woman back to girl
and back to whole again?

ii

her mouth pools with blood from her razor tongue
in a corner with her hands held high she becomes a wall
savors the anger like fruit she stole when no one was looking
tells her sins to God, no one is listening

in a corner with her hands held high she becomes a wall
becomes a fire no one can touch
tells her sings to God, no one is listening
she is alone here

becomes a fire no one can touch
savors the anger like fruit she stole when no one was looking
she is alone here
her mouth pools with blood from her razor tongue

iii

no one could say which one of them
held the baby or the bomb

each cradled a heavy head
held its body across her chest
beneath a billowing cloth

both walked with the grace
only mothering teaches
moving without disturbing
a sleeping thing

when we were putting the bodies back together
trying to bury what we could not name
there was no one left, not even a child
to tell us which mother they heard ticking
or clucking before they knelt

We could not bend the bones back from broken
to know whose forehead touched the ground last
or gather the breath back into their mouths
even into a mumble to say
whose prayer was answered first
or whose daughter went home