The body of the widow, abed.
Stalks of bone near sere skin,
cirrus of hair that clings to her crown,
a shell-thin hand drawn
before tremulous flame—
this candle I lit for her,
unattended since dawn—
I am now vigilant with light.
Through the cloud of curtain
at the window,
the magnolia languishes white,
a bride afire
shedding petals of veils
to kneel at altar edge,
bare pure cords
of her limbs,
lifted—
I see through her
to what is most vulnerable—
depth of blood shored
at the vessel,
body of cells amassed
as in taizé,
pour and seep of silence.
I open my lips
as if to chant—
her hands fall to her sides.
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