Watching

The Rest

The rest of us watch from beyond the fence

as the woman moves with her jagged stride

into her pain as if into a slow race.

We see her body in motion

but hear no sounds,or we hear

sounds but no language; or we know

it is not a language we know

yet. We can see her clearly

but for her it is running in black smoke.

The cluster of cells in her swelling

like porridge boiling, and bursting,

like grapes, we think. Or we think of

explosions in mud; but we know nothing.

All around us the trees

and the grasses light up with forgiveness,

so green and at this time

of the year healthy.

We would like to call something

out to her. Some form of cheering.

There is pain but no arrival at anything.

Margaret Atwood