Moan

Tonight we cried together.
The release had been waiting. Hugging my shoulders,
buried in grief behind my shoulder.
It could not surface when I drove the 30,
although it had been let go before,
out the windows,
billowing and deep.

My whole body needed what was delivered.
Better than any sermon.
It is hungry and gospel, and raw, and ours, and
ever secret.

We hung onto the words as they lingered in the humidity,
Something in the way we cry,
allows us to live.

http://www.newyorker.com/books/page-turner/adrienne-richs-poetic-transformations