For 15 years, I have
made small bowls;
pastels drawing of women
with empty bellies;
masks without eyes
or mouths.
The years pass.
The pain waxes.
My heart wanes.
For days each month, I
dream, hope and plan.
For days afterward, I
weep in the shower;
he can't hear me in there.
On sunny days I smile.
I love the children of my friends.
My heart waxes, the pain wanes.
For 15 years, I studied;
read all the books, magazines;
and then all the sites.
I am still empty.
I still hope.

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