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.