Morning becomes mourning with the purchase of a vowel.

It's a new day but the same ancient grief

 carried by so many of my sisters,

wearing handed-down cloaks in the

hard heat of summer, in the

deep end of the pool. 

We sweat.

We swelter and

suffer and

savor each each other.

We survive. 

Mourning becomes morning as we rise,

we disrobe.

We are collections of breasts and

brawn and

beating hearts,

our bid to the universe,

our communal prayer.