There is lightning in the high clouds to the north,
but distance cancels the thunder. The
flashes reach me, but the cycle is

The sky turns darker, eclipses the healing
moon and stars.  

I am the first emigre, the first immigrant
woman. I leave as a stranger, I arrive the
same. With no husband, no sons, the cycle
is incomplete.  

The clouds roll closer. The air cools and
turns electric.  

My daughters and I speak our only language,
and are damned. We eat the only food we
know, and we are cursed. We would belong
but the cycle is incomplete.  

The distance closes. Thunder makes the
children turn in their sleep.  

My labor is required, but undervalued. My
wisdom is needed but not sought. Our
bodies are desired, then discarded. The
cycle is incomplete.  

Silence drops, is suddenly carried away by a
thousand fingers drumming.  

The rain falls, warm and soft, carrying hope
and salvation, but the ground is hard. The
promise is rejected, flows in gutters. The
cycle is incomplete.