She Mourns. Poem by Terry Collett

She mourns.

Head on knees,
hands on ankles,
feeling with fingers
tired skin.

Child death
unlike all other.

We made,
he said,
I carried,
she replied.

The child died.

Ce qui peut venir
de tout cela?

What result?
He questioned
over dull coffee,
cigarette held low,
eyes mud brown
cast down.

Blessures comme
celle-ci ne guérissent pas,
she said.

Pictures of her child
swim in the waters
of her pained head.