Such a wide circle to feed. Relatives mud-streaking the windows to sign grief. Inside, the old story. The black-wrapped widow shaving children's heads. What it's like without.
Women wake in the borrowed soldiers' tent nursing candles.
Men by the fire. Small lights in the night. Cries of crowned plovers, this old habit of naming. What's it like to wake to gazelles every morning tell me about Africa . There was this funeral.