Widow

Standard

Lance Sheridan

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…

View original post 86 more words

3 thoughts on “Widow

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s

This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.