Of Tables Under Trees
And came the cry of the mother, the drowned
out sounds of the voices crying for her as the sharp
white eyes peered out
from the night; and the stillness after was
haunting. Bury the mother a few feet
deep, our lady said, the coyotes won’t dig her up
that way. The only time I saw
our lady cry: when the old man with the hobbled foot
she nursed to wellness laid still in his
cage, when the day became just an
afterthought of the morning.