The oldest woman in our village
had fingers missing on her left hand.
She waved her hands at the sky
on the day she lost her son,
wailed that no God was left for her.
If her voice before was veiled like a
she was done whispering at a family
who gave her away like perishing fruit.
Today women are birthing turtles
from the honey in their wombs
into this world.
Crawling away from the center
our future loses force as do traditions.
- K. Eltinaé