Conversations
There’s always conversation going on about death.
The widow gardens.
She sprouts mint and sage, raises mums and peonies
variably.
They perfume the porch; and they distract you
while she weeps over and over, reaching
for you. How can she feel close,
when all those years she slept one room over
as if the hallway could heal.
No wonder you left in the manner you did,
afraid to be alone, the widow
like the 13 steps it took to walk to your room.
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