call for the wailing women
a mother interrupted
presses face to ground bereft
she will not be comforted
her tongue tied angels weeping
pluck her tatters from the harps
bitterly bestow the cloak
whose sick gravity will round
woe\'s ever shaking shoulders
wrenching songs of Bethlehem
of Rachel and her children
pleading uncomprehending
for too few throwing stones
when grief is an overlong chain
and all of her poets
gone