Underground

Don't say face of the moon, not            voice like morning dew. Instead, say hookin-the-tongue, try barb-in-the-flesh,

say knife-in-the-wound.They are turning their locksto paint their faces

and their daughters' faces.            They look on as the girls regardtheir eyes in mirrors, in the long

cracked mirror of history, and war.            They paint themselves into existenceinside the shuttered rooms

of their hearts, where freedom            still bristles. They are stripping veilsfrom their faces and letting loose

their glossy hair. They are singing            with their daughters, firstsoftly, and then loudly, in unison.

They have taken their girls            underground. They open battered booksto teach them letters and words

that may save them. Some shave            their daughters' locks so the girls mightwalk a different route each day

with cracked books tucked into bags of apricots.            They prepare for the minutes apart,the hours. They wait

for what seems days, months, years.            But first they kiss, they embrace.They take one last look at each face.