The man stands here
at the edge of our road
crowned by a fur Cossack hat
robed in leather jacket
pondering the muddy ditch
as if the answer runs there
to questions that sit
in his dark eyes, rimmed
by something not yet grasped,
some translation not yet rendered.
The woman bore eight children
before she and her family
crossed lines of faith
to come here, where she covers mirrors
with black cloths of mourning,
wails aloud in congregations
in prayer for her sons
not yet dead,
wields knives in the kitchen
and threatens them all with her grief.
Her husband brings her forth
and appeals for treatment
to heal the wounds in her mind,
newly opened in this country
where every hope spills forth
from shelves of too much plenty.
"She's just not a good wife anymore."
Her tired eyes smile across the table
and we send her home,
sanguine potions of sanity
hidden in her palm.
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