As the earth returns to chaos, her women brace to mourn,

excavate their buried faith, tap reservoirs of grace, to mourn.

Soldiers steady M-16s, search stillborn eyes for welcome or

for signs of commonality. Ferreting no trace, they mourn.

Few are safe, where passions swell like gangrened limbs you cannot

amputate. Sever one, another takes its place, and you mourn.

Freefall into martyrdom, a bronze-skinned youth slips into the

crowd, pulls the pin. He and destiny embrace, together mourn.

Grenades are colorblind. A woman falls, spilling ebon hair

beside the blond in camouflage. Death’s doorman gives chase. All mourn.

Even hell capitulates to sudden downpour. Cloudburst sweeps

across the hardpan, cracks the bloodstained carapace. Hear God mourn.

Up through scattered motes, a daughter reaches for an album. She

climbs into a rocking chair to search for Daddy’s face, and mourn.

Downstairs, a widow splinters on the bed, drops her head into

his silhouette, etched in linen on the pillowcase, to mourn.

Alone, the world is ugly in black. When final night descends

to blanket Ellen, drops its shroud of tattered lace, who will mourn?