The women gather at the marketplace. They carry bundles: stone-heavy, over-flowing. They've come to barter their woes, peddling packs of guilt, regrets, burdens.   The dim-eyed women babble: how they ...

Do you still believe in Keats? she asks me, a sardonic smile playing about her mouth. I put down the Collected Works. They’re brindled with notes in my long-ago teenage scrawl. She can’t believe that ...