With open gaze, upon her clothes battered in the rising
Sun of a new morn,
The night of her dressing
Up to see
The funeral of a man she welcomed to be
Her husband, to be a widow.
Love, she did.
And weep, she did, too.
With eyes full of wetness,
And limbs full of the trembling
Like leaves in Autumn.
It was but a clash of sounds.
A gun-play in the dark
That brought some notes of music
To those children whose heads are upon the boards
Asleep in the deep alleys.
Crookedness to her vision,
Painted over with blood, he was.
Her limbs full with the heaviness
Of a thousand tons of lead.
Yet, blood was upon her lips, so was sickness for her grief.
From a heart, worn with the years
She allowed to be flung from her grasp
To the soil, at her feet.
To be lifted up, in its seeds
The sight of what could not ever be.
Mere sadness was her aching destiny
To be the kindness all thought her to be.
To love a man, as a woman can
Made this one grand, and only grand
Enough to see where her tears stand.
Nothing but the pain that lifts itself a few inches in a casket
To be buried in the soil of no one’s territory.