I am reminded again: I envy women. I watch when they go so readily behind the mind's eye to where consciousness sleeps and wakes, and down to the throat where human suffering constricts the breath.
They go so readily there, the women, to the wounds and danger, their tears an alchemy in which the rage that turns on itself and eats the soul is given over to grief, a new alloy.
On a man's tongue, this grief is new, for he is late, newly arrived to face the mother and hear the music, to find what lies between an impulse and a thought.