We cannot see them.
They wander in spirit—
women who’ve died
in childbirth,
who do not stand still
stretch out like an horizon,
palms lifted up.

They have lost souls—
sing to the sun of tones
ever too high, varied
for human ear:
shoulders too wide for
passage— hemorrhage—
dehydration, death,

Unwanted early ripeness.
Eight months away from home—
boy-child never beheld,
given up—unplanned fertility,
forced early marriage—
resentment, shame,
years of disinterest,

Womb gone to seed—
uterus vacant only a month—
reluctant abortion—
uncertainty, guilt.
Long ago in Mexico,
People asked you,
Cihuateteo— stop spirits.

People traced terracotta—
black, red— give spirits shape—
honoring them like warriors,
having died in battle—
eyes double-wedged,
pupils drawn in black resin.
They wrapped clay skirts

Around them, braided earth hair,
coiled ornaments at elbow,
wrist, ear, and neck.
Cihuateteo, help us.
We don’t know how
to stop them—too many
ways to die in childbirth.

Building no monuments for them.
Their voices moan, weave, merge—
Roam the countryside,
engulf our little children.

*Cihuateteo is an ncient Nahuan goddess of women who died in childbirth.