Christine Stewart

We are waiting, grandmother and I, for the white bird. The black bird grows larger above our heads, Its immense wings spreading as it dives down To pull her away piece by piece. Grandmother is not ashamed; She lies open before me, white as bone, Glistening with morphine, giving me this last gift. The hungry bird chitters and squawks, circling. I will stay until the bones are picked clean; I will stay until the wide wings swallow the last of the light, Until the white bird is free at last.

On my way, I come upon them— A gathering of old women Soaking their cracked, graying skin, Their thick bodies sprawling voluptuously: Knees bent, Curving out of the water, Heads thrown back in a tangle of vines and leaves. I pause a moment, Waiting to hear their voices echoing with years, Telling me what I need to know, But the sun has made them sleepy and secretive; I hear only their whispered laughter. They do not trust me; I am not yet ready to listen.