The women 
They talk over the kitchen table
After long days and dinner
When the husbands have busied themselves
With things like Sunday Football
In tones sometimes hushed
Other times loud and rambunctious
They giggle and glare and replay 
Sot that others may share their sentiments
Passing out their wisdom with their gossip and recipes
They speak of being  broken and too old to care
As well as whole when they thought it was too late
And I remember when they use to shoo me from their midst
Now I  sit at their feet 
Silent
Learning of motherhood
And being a wife
Learning when to give a little and when to stand strong
They spill their secrets as though it is official 
And I am one of “them”
And sometimes listened to my stories as well
And I grow up
Covered in their wings
So as not to make the mistakes that they have
The women
They talk about freedom in a way that I’ve never experienced
But want to
Stretching their used bodies  out to be recycled into newness
Still hopeful to learn something new  before they die
All the while