They undertake a threnody,
two women and one God, losing
slavery of bones, of muscle-tone.
Mothering, her purest hair is white
weaving satchel and sarcophagus
to perambulate the drift of grief,
dead-legged, lost-twisted,
celestine withdrawal, into mist
the mouth that moved, half carved
palliative redundancy, the temple
should have prepared for this; flaw
in the prime, wax man, sun burn,
an uttering rib. Somehow the figure
sustains our balance, trapezoid
fibres hooked and lifting
scapular thrown into station
bypassing arterial hope, breathe
labouring bread on my scalp—
there is no point, there is no way
I saw the flames upsurge