Saturday, January 21, 2023

21.01.2023 II

Floating over leaden feet out from hospital halls 

An automaton.   Your jeans, and bra 

Crumpled into the bottom of a white, plastic bag

I felt like I carried your sad body in that bag, 

I moved— not quite walking 

Head down hung mouthed

Fallen faced in crowds 

I needed the world to see that I was broken. 

"There's something to be said for widow's wear" someone told me, 

And so I wore your last breath like a black veil 

Over everything I touched

And allowed the discomfort 

Of waitresses and taxi drivers 

To lie across my body like 

Grey assuagement. 



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