Searching back she finds you
dead, her son of seven springs,

beside the dirt road, naked
but for a white loincloth.

You lie on scattered straw,
stones press swollen flesh,

clouds of flies graze and buzz.
Passing crowds look away,

their dark hands cup mouth
and nose, to shut you out.

She enters your air and kneels
to remove the long straw shaft

that pierces your empty eye;
her keening cry wounds the sky.