I recently revisited a draft of a poem I began in 2015, just a year into my widowhood. Quite often setting something aside to revisit in a few months has the effect of clarifying the work to its originator. I call it 'aging the words like wine.' Widow's Lament almost wrote itself upon reading its beginnings eight years earlier
WIDOW’S LAMENT
I’m not going to pick up the mail
today
I’m not going to open the shades
I’m not going to give the
neighbors a glimpse
Of my life as I live it today.
I hate the way they peer out their windows
I hate the odd little questions.
How is it, my dear? Are you doing OK?
Let me know if there’s something to
help with.
I hate looking out my window to see
Couples driving off in their cars
Friday night’s promise of lovely
exchanges
While I sit watching TV.
I’m not going to pick up my mail today
I’m not going to open the shades
It’s none of their business what I
do with my life
Now that my husband is gone.
SATURDAY
I’ll brush my teeth
I’ll fix my hair
I’ll make the bed
And start some wash
Solitary confinement
Others have plans
Too busy to phone
I’ll walk
I’ll write
I’ll think
I’ll buy eggs
I’ll listen to music
I’ll fade of loneliness
Not Monday, a fun day
Not Tuesday, a muse-day
Not Wednesday, a friends day
Not Thursday, a hers day
Not Friday, a sigh day
It’s Saturday, a no matter day.
Copyright © 2023 by Sara J. Glerum