Our Last Big Fight

We are outside, surrounded
by women with empty mouths.
They stand under tents, behind
rows of books.  They hand us
little pieces of paper, their eyes
searching our eyes, as if they
might recognize us, as if we
are merely waiting
for the right moment to tell
them we are cousins, to give
them a gift.

I turn towards them;
you walk away.
Darkness approaches like a horrible
dress or a loud, broken train.