Ritual
These men got what they deserved.
She looks down at the fresh grave,
breathing the sour odors of wet earth
and the recent sweat of the diggers.
Dressed in mourners' black, naturally.
Far from the smoky lanterns of the street,
the meat roasting on the stoves,
and the violence and money
men waste on brief entertainment.
She’s the youngest; her sisters and
mother always know where she is.
In front of her, three short steps beyond
the dark soil, is the wooden cross
with the neatly carved name.
The carpenter here does fine work.
She rubs a swollen lip. It will heal
and fade like the others, and this one
will not leave a scar. They all,
mother and sisters, bear record
on their skin from men like this one.
These men deserved what they got.
You’re the one that makes it right,
her sisters tell her. You were born knowing
where to cut, they admire. Our angel
sent to protect us. Small and quick,
shadow-to-shadow, under dim windows,
too clever to be seen, the deed done
swiftly by a small hand and a sharp
thin blade where no one looks.
And when suspicion arises?
“She’s the baby, we don’t let her out.”
“We always know where she is.”
What more can women do
but protect each other?
Knife in hand now, she steps forward.
The turned earth gives a little
under her boots. One hand on top
of the cross, she hacks at the letters.
They splinter and crack, until
there is bare wood cleaved and cut
where a name once stood.
These men deserve what they get.
She’s the baby, her mother and sisters
always know where she is.
Then she’s gone in her black dress
before any—alive or dead—can notice her,
this cemetery ritual complete