When the women stopped speaking
we could still hear them.  They spoke
with their breath, their tears,
their breasts.  In the steamy cold
of twilight, they spoke with downcast
Where are my children? they asked.
Where are my soft, naked children?
It was so quiet, we had to cover our ears.

* * *

Published in Conversations Across Borders.
(c)2012 Michael Schein, all rights reserved.

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