Grief

“Bring ‘em back alive,

Bring my babies home tonight.”

She sings softly

her voice breaking on the beat

I see her reflection

dark against the white light

her hair tied up in knots

her sleeves pulled down over

hands smudged with dirt

and dried black paint.

She looks like a fugitive

running across war-torn states

fleeing apocalyptic towns

tumbling over starving deserts.

I can almost see the tattered shawl

wrapping her small shoulders

the bone protruding, barely kept

contained in a stretched skin suit.

I can almost imagine death’s sweet lips

press against her cracked temple.

She rocks back on skinny legs

swathed in a rough fabric skirt

the colour of winter skies.

She begs, pathetically,

her fingers clasped, her arms shaking,

and in that moment she looks like a child

wracked with a mother’s grief and

a father’s thinning patience.

“Please,” She mumbles,

her throat thick and tight.

I found myself feeling sorry for the creature

broken and lying bloody

but I know my fate is already laid.

She moans, a deep, guttural sound,

so wild and raw.

“Bring ‘em back to me,

Set my darling babies free.”