Who have been thrown
through doors
and had their ribs kicked in
while lying in a pile
of broken glass
in their own front yards
came together in
the woods, next to a
stream
and cried
What if they cried
until they couldn’t
any longer and
they finally after years
and years
felt whole
and
healed and free
What if they just
simply listened to
each other’s stories and
felt the pain of others,
and not just their own
Would they cry more
or would they cry less
or would anything happen at all
What if their children
were with them
the children who
witnessed, the children who
watched
and remember
and who hold on to their
mother’s skirts-
who remember
being sandwiched between the mattress
and box springs