The furious whirling rainbows of dance end with the first shot but are incomplete.
She does not hear the booms of what she cannot know as gun fire.
She yelps thrusting her arms out and away hoping to grab hold. She finds nothing and no one.
Her new being splits her bud lips into soundless, mouthed wailing.
Her new lessons stretch her taut.
As she is about to tear, she is lifted and held close to a new back.
She lays her fevered cheek against the rough, pink shawls of another.
A stranger, an elder from another tribe.
Her dark, long hair smells of the smoke of an unknown fire, of another stripped bare.
She closes her eyes with brown fingers laced in her new woman.
Who are they?
They are the end.
What are you doing?
Making marriage soup to save…
What is save?
Allowing your tomorrows to come and go.
What are these?
Tears, my love, tears.
When will they end?
As you open your mouth and sip the soup.
They barge in, again breaking her bowl. The blood earns title to the soil. No purpose left.
The dry land drinks the mixing soup of sobs and veins and dies in its thirst for more.
Their ghosts shadow a scar across the cheeks of a new people.
Creating other bowls filled with broth where bitter meets sweet.
Moving but are not lost.
What is that?
The dance continues.