Mary Awaiting an Answer Waiting is women's work. I don't imagine that you're sitting there, picturing the wrenching touch of loss or its converse, reddening at thought of how sweat sings, and tears. There's quietness in agony, a nothing to be done, a darkening. I think my face impassive, after the fracture of separation, sudden even though the end foresaw the start.
Rings do their work, and break.
My veil enraptures me.