slim frame like gossamer mantilla
failing to hide sparkle in brown eyes
spring in step walking along the road
carrying small bag, she smiles rummaging
contents – lipstick case, wallet, keys, camera
and map – always the map of city.
finding it, unfolds it slowly like precious
love letter, perusing every inch, line,
bumps, veins, grooves, towers, walls
smoothing and checking hours, schedules
no detail escapes her warm inquisitive fingers
burdened with caring for an ailing
spouse, she now stumps city’s streets
like young girl rediscovering a lover
wanting to get lost in his warm belly, deep tunnels
so vibrant and intriguing, making her forget
white walls with disinfectant smell
memories of spouse’s death wish, 20 years long
when struck with paralysis, he became half a man
never letting her forget he was once that man.
she now fidgets with gold band in ring finger
just 4 more months until I can wear bright
summer clothes, she says. Pin sunflowers
straw hat, butterfly brooch in silky dress.
waving the map, I watch her board red bus
window seat, she presses against murky glass
breasts heaving against engine's pulse
she breathes in sweat, dirt from lover’s arms,
her ardor greater each passing day.
Author's Note: Posted for D'Verse Poets Pub - OpenLinkNight. Doors open Tuesday (every Tuesday) at 3pm EST. See you there~
Real life experiences fascinate me so I took a widow's story and gave it my own interpretation. It is customary for some cultures to wear mourning clothes (of either black or white) for one year.