There is a woman sitting
at a window, looking out upon the weather,
and she glances back -- whether
or not you stand with her in the room, she will not
look directly at you.

In summer seasons, she fishes at the river
reeling bodies tied on strings, to dangle
helplessly, then toss them to the currents.

And her child, not born, but distilled
inside her womb, who died
ages ago, yet is ever smothered in her breast --
the little girl does not rest, but cries a lonesome wail
of innocence, and the heart's cracked details
of a blanket torn away.

And the woman is still waiting, ever waiting
for the day, but does not realize -- she will never be
revived, restored, remade.