The Cousins are doing their wool work
sitting in their blankets knitting for their
Mothers, proud to be loved by their Mothers.
The Cousins’ faces are slack like emptied
lungs. They remember, like their prayers, how
their Mothers make breakfast for them, let
them stick their thumbs in jammy jars,
shelter them from the rain under skirts,
always forbid them to hurt each other.
They are Cousins, joining hands for their Mothers,
sad as dogs, their owners poorly and lame.