What Women Carry

Thursday's Poem (Audio)

What Women Carry

Her own weight again, maybe more
borne at top of her hipbones. Practiced, so as not to pinch
her lower back. Lift with the legs. She trudges
into the surf. The weight of the sea fills her skirts
her thoughts. She lifts a man—still dry—into a boat.
Best prepared to search for the silver darlings. Safely.

Warm.

There are no words.
Everything’s a curse. Or a profession to tempt
a god who loves irony. So, still silent, she crosses
the brackish field. Home again, to hang her skirt to dry.

The fog dissipates into an equally white morning.

She moves into the day listening
to the ticking of saltwater hitting
the flagstone outside the window.
A metronome to mark the passing
of another hour.

How many waves have slapped the beach already today?
Bringing with them torn nets and glass floats
like witch balls filled with salt.

There’s a second heartbeat beneath her ribs.

Later the waulking begins.
And she sings with the other women. Pounding
on the wool that will become a fisherman’s sweater,
or a bonnet to cover a newborn’s soft skull.

And as the sun sets, she looks to the sea. Knowing
its pull. Its insistence. She carries the weight of it
into her bed. Another heartbeat
settles in her throat
like that of a ghost.

I offer you poetry as a Practice of Hope.
I invite you to write an answer poem
and copy it or link to it in the chat!