The Widow-Maid comes
with wild black hair and
crimson eyes,
her footsteps soft reminders
that her shoes once danced.
“I have been mistress to a year of pain,”
she whispers sadly to fresh loaves of bread,
“out of a long winter, I awake.”
–the coins pass hand to hand,
and back outside her white breath curls–
“Oh, lover!
Please know
that if I pass you in the street, it is
the icy sting of wind,
and thus…
Thus, with tears, I greet you,
but I do not weep.”
–one frozen hand upon the door–
“Do not think I weep!”
Inside she shakes slivers of sky from her hair,
sheds every garment and stands naked,
ready for the turn of seasons,
asking yellowed walls–
“Were we ever really friends,”
(but idle paper doesn’t speak)
“or simply lovers,
waiting to be?”
