That look I recognise. The women’s faces
have been cut away by scalpels of light,
pared so hard the person has disappeared.
White forehead, white cheekbones, black holes
where the eyes once were. They hold up the photographs
of husband, brother, son, the other disappeared.
They have turned the faces outward for everyone to see,
in case someone witnessed the nudge on the street
or saw them taken aside, or heard the knock on the door,
in case there is Information.
If they are speaking at all they are saying a name,
but all speech is lost in the wailing of sirens.
They hold up the faces of family men
who have been devoured on the usual road home
or swallowed whole by the exit door
and the photograph is a shield the women wear
over the heart, all the brightness turned outward
to where no one is looking, really, no one
is watching; towards a reason that may not be there,
