on a taxi yesterday
I met a grey haired ghost with a rumbling silence
swollen, her belly brewed a hushed anger
a stillness of breaths
that remembered promises and children.
She told me of a dream she once had
a country she once carried.
she told me of twenty six days of night
how she imagined the sun and the sky
lay dreaming on a cement wetness
fought memories of a broken door
her babies’ screams
one was five, the other three.
she could not allow herself to think of them
of what had happened to them.
she did not cry
nor was she cold
she could not tell me when exactly her womb had turned to lead
only that countries and children are a sorrow
worse than dying