Fifty of us, at a wedding
overflowing with sweet wine.
Our mothers tremble
behind the columns.
Fifty of us, our hands filled
with bread and dates.
Our knives tremble
in our sleeves.
Fifty of us, in darkened rooms,
our gowns slipping from our shoulders.
The curtains tremble
between the beds.
Fifty of us, placing sharpened knives
against our husbands' throats.
Our hands tremble
as we push bronze into skin.
Fifty of us, with roughened rope
tied tight around our necks.
The ropes tremble
as we fall.
Fifty of us, carrying water
in containers filled with holes.
The jugs tremble
in our tired arms.
Fifty of us, remembering
the way our husbands burned our homes.
The images tremble
in our shadowed minds.
Fifty of us, sold for gold
to the men who burned our homes.
The coins tremble
in our bloodstained hands.
Fifty of us, placing our mouths
against the dripping holes.
Our mouths tremble
removing all regret.