One of the Women

One of the women inside me 
cannot rejoice with anyone. 
She stays in the shadows 
bowing her head. 
Her long hair has never been cut. 

One of the women inside me 
thinks of suffering 
at moments of great joy, and won’t eat 
with the family on days of thanksgiving. 
Her hands cover her eyes. 

The woman waits 
for companionship, but has no answers 
I will believe. 
I refuse to join her. Her eyes 
have seen something savage, 
but she is beautiful. 

When she puts on a white garment,
consanguine tinges appear, stains 
over which she toils. When I sleep, 
she roams the halls as though they were mazes
connecting only with each other. 
If she sleeps, she sleeps curved 
around her womb. 

It is she who will ruin my life, 
or else save it. It is she 
who makes me long at certain moments—
while cities in the distance burn—
to be turned to salt.