Patterns

by Mary Sesso

​Water takes the shape
of whatever holds it,
like milk takes the shape
of a mother’s breast,
like cancer arranges itself
in the shape of that breast,
stealing its loveliness,
and hurt stealing its touch, 
like a woman’s world
takes the shape of a coffin,
like saying goodbye
takes the shape 
of a Requiem Mass,
like tears take the shape
of black rosary beads,
tears hanging on 
decade after decade 
waiting for sickle-moons 
to turn full and blue, 
finally drying eyes  
in soft, comforting light.

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