Say what you want about the gods;
when feathers blushed about

my neck, my son was still dead,
my sister’s jaw as vacant as

a tomb; her tapestry bled
upon the wall. What a meal

we made, a work as old as time—
two women curled around

a fire, choking on the smoke,
burning hair, the end

of a line. And when the cry boiled,
wordless from my husband’s

throat, we swallowed the same draught,
beat the same wings, sang

the same songs over Thrace,
or didn’t.