Hunger in the Dark

Hunger in the Dark

The grandmothers are wailing, heads covered,
faces creased with the stories of their living.
They offer honey to those passerby who hear them,
hoping for even just a glance.
What we would heal, we must know, willingly.
With our own broken edges we have put out our eyes,
refusing to countenance what must be.
The grandmothers whisper medicine, gently, gentling:
only the honey of our grief may feed us.