the women beat their fists against the meat of the earth. The bare skin of their faces has never met the sunlight but their hands are familiar with the gold-sand ground. The scream in a language that has no name, their fingers scraping like animal paws. The hole deepens.
the men carry the body. Wrapped in black their cheeks are dark with desert sun and their shoulders take the weight. The body is too light, there are too many men to carry it.
The edges of the pit are heaped with stone. The men place the body like porcelain. The women’s faces are black cloth, but the grief is imprinted in their palms.