her hands have become foreign as the stranger on the line continues to speak words she does not understand, but will come to know as the language of loss. when she finally finds her voice, it is the sound of a wandering bird, a train no longer on its tracks, a keening cry that drops me cold. mary folds into the feeling of pain like a fighter, back arched and shoulders up, burying the anchor deeper into her spine. it is morning, and mary no longer belongs here, in this consciousness, in this life he left her in. it is morning, mary, and i cannot save you from this.
mourning light II