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Jane Ebihara


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 



that word that doesn’t fit

on a printed page        rests alone on the next



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

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