Don’t say face of the moon, not

voice like morning dew. Instead, say hook-

in-the-tongue, try barb-in-the-flesh, 

say knife-in-the-wound.

They are turning their locks

to paint their faces 

and their daughters’ faces.

They look on as the girls regard 

their eyes in mirrors, in the long 

cracked mirror of history, and war.  

They paint themselves into existence 

inside the shuttered rooms 

of their hearts, where freedom

still bristles. They are stripping veils

from their faces and letting loose

their glossy hair. They are singing 

with their daughters, first

softly, and then loudly, in unison.

They have taken their girls 

underground. They open battered books 

to teach them letters and words

that may save them. Some shave 

their daughters’ locks so the girls might 

walk a different route each day 

with cracked books tucked into bags of apricots.  

They prepare for the minutes apart, 

the hours. They wait 

for what seems days, months, years.

But first they kiss, they embrace. 

They take one last look at each face.