Sundays at the Sycamore Trees

Revised version of "Time to Forget"

In the winter on sundays, the women make the long walk down

to the river, to dispose of their tears. They cling to each other

as seasons of wet salt escape into the water. Their skin

is the color of charcoal and ash, blended unevenly around the edges,

coca beans and cold forgotten coffee. The moon knows the way

they bleed, like wet paint dripping off a ruined canvas.

The black canopy sycamore trees form a protective sanctuary

at the rivers edge, to hide their overweight, hideous, sorrow

From the people who would only pretend to care, their husbands

Light cigarette after cigarette, growing cramps in their feet from tapping.

The ocean looks ugly to them. They flick their cigarettes into the unforgiving

Water and wonder how long it takes to find yourself. The woman

Walk out from under the trees into the frigid night, bone dry and ready

To forgive. In the darkness of winter, the woman cannot see their husbands

Eyes. Even though they stand under the only light for miles, they cannot see

Their eyes. Had they ever seen their eyes? The men don’t even bother to look.
Instead, they link chapped hands with the woman, and walk out into the dark of the darkest winter night.