We sit in twos, in threes, at a black table
At the door the ones who want to weep for us are furiously knocking. At times
one of us stands up, as from a life from a afar and
writes on the door with a freshly severed finger:
Don’t you know that the ones who are crying inside know each other,
even if they see each other sparingly or not at all? And
we set tables and scatter photographs of our folks on them.

Unpaired kids emerge from pictures. Two birds emerge
and fill up the room. Our mothers emerge shining
like a cluster of suns but we are not going as blind as to give night
a miss.