Eclipse

The creeping eclipse 
of shroud over schoolyards,
daycares and spring markets-
like a huntsman spider waiting 
in our baskets of herbs.

A mourner’s veil greying out
the soft café lamps and
the white hospital linens and
the warmth of our grandparent's houses.

Our restful nests, the rise and fall like robin breast-
the matron wings we tuck ourselves under
are targeted and torn asunder 
for nothing but a sullen boy with a stone.

There is still a ring of light 
when that shadow wraps the sun
and we dare not look
but we hear it-

it sounds like a meteor’s gasp before impact,
the rumble of fire and clatter of rock-
tectonic plates clawing against one another:
the earth writhing under what we have done.

It sounds like a choir
of one hundred and sixty-five girls.
I can’t make out the words 

over the petrichor and iron echo
of one hundred and sixty-five graves
howling up to the veiled sky.

The earth begging us not to
send her any more children,
her arms are too heavy to hold them all.