The Women Who Walk Us Home

The ones who arrive with a bag of clothes, four

tired lemons, half a story from her sister’s trip to

Paraguay. The ones who keep secrets and whose

secrets we keep in potted plants, in every ocean we’ve

ever known. The ones who know our husbands, their

little pleasures. Our lovers and our scars. The ones

who stay, hope like a moth. Who stare into the gaping

tomb and are not afraid of its unveiling. The ones who

will be there, even then (even then), to walk us home.