Do not begrudge the constant drizzle of Lisan Ile,
whose posture, crumpling, beaten
as her kin washed ashore,
their ashes lost piecemeal in the grits
The driftwood toiling,
severed headstone floats
atop the crush of distant swells.
It drizzles here
but never pours.
In gasps and gulps come grief-sodden villagers, only
in the shadow of this heavy, stone girl,
shielding her kin from the absent sun.