The Night Flower

Palm to palm, the women dance

Breasts bronzed by firelight,

Their bare feet slamming out a rhythm,

Against the naked, ochre earth.

A ziggurat of cut stone,

The tomb of the kings,

Looms in the distance,

Pinned to the moon.

But this is not a dance bewailing kings

Safe behind their immortalizing walls;

This is a silent, bittersweet lamentation.

An unsung song for commoners.

Husbands, wives, daughters, sons

Brothers, sisters, fathers, mothers,

Those broken by labor and injustice;

Entombed in caves and burial pits.

The women arch their backs,

The petals of a night flower spreading.

Ululations emerge from their throats,

The deep, cold, mournful cry

Of those left behind.