mistresses of grief

Someone is speaking within the walls 

but no one is entitled to gather up the sounds 

The musty rooms on the south side hold only emerald butterflies 

those on the north closed on nubile roses preserve the intimacy of
linens 

 

Insomniac women polished the windows there with their tucked-up
skirts 

They were as fragile as dispersed water 

and as trustworthy as blood 

the scarlet ring on their bellies made them mistresses of grief 

 

A peculiar weather knocked on the doors 

it taught the youngest of them to read the night 

and to decant tears from pillow to pillow 

 

[Vénus Khoury-Ghata {1937- } 'Someone is speaking within' from She Says, trans. by Marilyn Hacker]