What is a woman, if her chief good
is to burrow into the earth
like a blue mole, searching for the dead,
with no sense for the present, for the living?
Look how she noses around down there,
sifting her body into the silt
of the past, stubbornly, with no light,
completely ignoring the life above her.
She has questions for the dead ones — questions
she thinks necessary to this life.
Above her, the living wait.
They thunder the earth with their pacing:
bake bread, sing, plant seeds
in the garden: terrifying love-noise.
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