Her Dirge

memory is a washerwoman

who knows that when the blood is poisoned,

you have to slaughter the whole cow.

otherwise the thick plasma stains the carpet of

earth and turns the seeds to acrid flesh

memory says nothing of this

she is too aware of where she stands

that is, over the clay well—heaving the knotted

rope from the centuries-old pit, the slosh

licking her toes, she knows to stick

to curled fingers on wrapped cloth

wringing then soaking, dunking then

hanging. she cares not for language

pushes away tongue from teeth

resorts to listening for the breath in

the creek, the sway of baobab, ficus,

cinnamon, and mango tree.

so when the sea vomits the dead

and the sky turns an orange-red that

resembles dying embers on a dry night

she says nothing of the past, does not

beg for the remembering, instead she lets

the waves swallow more bodies

in gulps, knows that by morning she

will return, bucket under arm, to lower her load onto

the stump. measure out ash soap, tincture

of oak, then wring out fabric. hum her song

and if she prays she does

not ask for hope, only more clothes.