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

recurring night,

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