Grief
Zara Raab
In the end, we soften to him, the one
who is left behind -- the madman, the Cain.
Sooner or later we must -- if only
to release the rapid fire of our rage.
Our sympathy for the missing and dead
at last runs cold from the tap, or else it
dries up in the swelter of noonday heat.
Yes, we will sit down beside the bastard --
we’ve no choice when just one carcass must be
shared by the whole town -- and yet, every
nerve and muscle in our body encodes
the mandate to our daughters: The desire
for husbands from among his kin shall be
ground down to naught for ten generations.
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