Lament

Everyone is always having feelings, drowning
in them, or being overcome. They come to me 

and ask me to listen as they pour them out 
of a great ewer. Just listen, they cry. 

Just listen; that's all we want you to do. 
But it's not possible to just listen and not 

fold from the neck down, to double over 
at the waist sometimes, to feel the syllables 

rise through the throat wanting only release. 
I don't remember what myth held the story 

of women waiting to receive any kind of bad 
news at the mouth of the river or at the hem 

of the sea: only that they stood there, foam 
rising above their ankles, arms crossed 

and hugging their shoulders; the pitiless sun 
pouring fire on their heads, the sand burning.