The rest of us watch from beyond the fence
as the woman moves with her jagged stride
into her pain as if into a slow race.
We see her body in motion
but hear no sounds, or we hear
sounds but no
it is not a language we know
yet. We can see her clearly
The cluster of cells in her swelling
like porridge boiling, and bursting,
like grapes, we think. Or we think of
All around us the trees
and the grasses light up with forgiveness,
so green and at this time
of the year healthy.
We would like to call something
out to her. Some form of cheering.
There is pain but no arrival at anything.
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