She is a blind glass resembling water,
A body, a dead syllable; she is a woman
In a dead package, numb as a lily looking
For an appropriate sun scissored into a
Black cloud. It seems to give her warmth,
Like a live skin. Widow: God made no
Promises; your prayers singed like a burning
Arrow up to heaven. You mourn in loneliness
Like a drunk sleeping in a puddle, wet in a
Dull sense; thoughts, crusted and sallow. Are
Your friends four seven eight and nine praying?
They are folding hands with nothing in between.
Their souls pass through one another in stale air,
Blinded grey to their own bequeathed marriages.
So kiss your husbands in dubious doorways and
Forget their Monday names. Their minds flicker
Like candles while playing prodigal charades.
Hello again to a sweet girl with churchyard ears,
Until you get stiffed again with a wink…
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