like the streamside ring of daylilies the loneliness
of the widowed young mother is edible she stands
in the doorway with her accidental smile and awkward
farm boots a ghost fading into a ghost
a smoky willow leaning over a mirrored pond
tilting off-center
in the green doorway of a house of a mutual friend
talking of Ireland as a way of talking about her dead
husband serum weeping from cut roots
as she falls through the bottleneck of emotional
amputation her isolation
concealed in three small children
with flooding shipwrecked eyes.
No comments:
Post a Comment