WATERMARK

The Day of the Dead

1 November 02005

This morning I woke to the smell of winter,

thinking of you searching for hope. Where

are you looking? In the bodies of women

who are strangers to you. In rice fields

and temples; in classrooms and markets;

in the dangerous sea. Though this valley

is bare, the mountains hide in a thin veil

of snow. If I set a place at my table for all

my dead, will they come? I am waiting

for hope. I know you are there, but you

are well out of sight.

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