Widowhood (Poetry)

Grief is a scab she can’t stop picking at —
keen to make it bleed some more
for there can be no scar all the while the wound is fresh
                and hurting...

If she, in some dazed state of missing him, allows
the skin to seal and begin to grow over
then the damage will seem old
and she fears to let that happen —

sorrow must be ongoing to be real at all
it should dominate the present — keep it sharp
always raw and feverish — a pain
that cuts — stays savage deep
a gaping chasm seeping with that familiar agony
meted out a ration at a time.

That’s how she knows he’s close
he can’t be far away
when the blood of separation still flows bright and new...

He left her for dead ... only yesterday?
Or it could be a year ago —
                she’s mourned him for twenty-two.