Discovered a new poem today:
Private Pain in Time of Trouble
How can I sustain
this troubled swelling:
my heart like an eggplant,
blackened, bulbous, grows too greedy:
bruised and sorrowful,
it will not let its great loss go,
wanting to be pendulous with child.
Private pain in time of trouble
as the dark-eyed children burn.
They stretch out their small hands to me:
sparrows, and I do not hear.
It is a false spring this year.