A gaggle of girls no older
than ten find us, grip, tug
at our dresses because
we look like them, a little,
where is my mother? one asks.
Not here, we tell her—where
are our mothers? More crying,
their little feet can’t help
but patter  around.
We wonder at their wandering
and while we don’t cry anymore
because we already sobbed fools
of ourselves before dying,
we’re wailing, waving our hands
toward the sky like some of us
learned to show holiness
together an overtone of we are
here, here you are, you are here now.
We brush and part
their hair into three tidy
sections, sniffling, braiding.
The girls pat their heads
following the purls
and command us to wield
this magic again—
we take their hands,
go searching for someone’s mother,
pretending like we don’t know
what we will find.