Waking Widowed
 

four seasons now

still that slap of reality

with each dawn

it is so      it is really so

even my bed a startling          

               unfamiliar field

 

nightmares fade in the light of day

truth does not

widow             I am a widow

the word itself something wrong 

 

widow

that word that doesn’t fit

on a printed page        rests alone on the next

leftover

 

the widow

something       not someone

 

in forty years

not once did I wake to the thought

I am married

how many seasons

before I wake without the wound

 

widows no longer wear black

we wear another costume

one that feels stolen

from another woman’s closet

 

a gown that falls

heavily on the body

like an unanswered question

 

which one of us is gone