I know why the women sing.

I know why the women sing as they pace

the cliffs, the roadside,

this hallway.

I know what it is to stand as the emptiness grows thicker

all around you.

You wonder, is it so empty now because he took too much space then?

And you bent and shrank and stretched for him

until now there is a hollowness here,

his imprint.

I know why the notes drift from me,

and the silence more silent around the edges.

It is company for my steps and my lips that have forgotten all the words for everything.

And the men, they blame us for luring them to their misery.

As though the lyric-less dirge that spins from our lips to comfort our souls

wrung dry by their careless hands

was somehow meant for them too.

As every part of us was meant for them.