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.
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.