the plot of our life sweats in the dark like a face the mystery of childbirth, of childhood itself grave visitations what is it that calls to us? why must we pray screaming? why must not death be redefined? we shut our eyes we stretch out our arms and whirl on a pane of glass an afixiation a fix on anything the line of life the limb of a tree the hands of he and the promise that s/he is blessed among women.