I hold to darkened rooms, and when I must,
I creep through back alleys in the shadow
of bricks. Forgiveness is a rich cake I will
never eat. Alone now. Blame has fallen
from me like wet leaves. My husband only
a name, with the taste of bitter roots,
gone to an early grave. I drink cold tea,
try to conjure the rounded face, the small
commas of hands clutching sunshine,
the girl child’s scent. I feel an ache
in the curve of my arms, rub them
till they bleed. My heart lies
in the succulent green-arrowed rosette
of rampion, a withered fruit within
the springtime plant. I pin a shawl
around my pain and watch young
mothers in the market slicing radishes,
white teeth biting firm, hot meat.
Published online in:
Flutter
2007