by Marianne Betterly
we widows
walk the world
hidden in the crowd
some wear white,
others black
golden band on finger
turned like a prayer wheel
spinning memories of his voice;
a ghost hand presses fingers
like a flower under glass,
mementos sealed in Snow White’s tomb
Indian widows burn
their gold and red saris
sometimes they leap in,
swimming in flames,
red vermillion gone
from the world drained of color
all that remains:
my wedding vows,
a musky sport coat,
a box of yellowed papers,
cards hidden in sock drawer
I will always love you
wedding kimono folded like a paper doll,
white album stuffed with faded smiles,
a dried red rose
we widows
walk the world
hidden in the crowd
some wear black,
others white,
alone
(formerly published in The Haight Ashbury Literary Journal)
