Down by a shivering creek
A widow sat in the fog colored 5 am.
She held a single blade of grass against
Her inner thigh and waited.
She was sure of it.
And when the fog cleared
A November mist would
Gently kiss the wisps of hair
That danced above her brow.
She'd learn how the tide pulled across
Her body and even though she doubted it,
How a man's hand would slide
To warm the skin below her waist.
She had promised this
And only this
To her mother on her dying day.
And like generations of widows before her,
She doubted her secrecy.
She swore that anyone within a five
Mile radius could smell it on her.
They could smell how she doubted the
Thick hurried sex of men that
Didn't worry about a stay at home wife.
They could smell how she hated to see them
When she knew they were devouring
The advantages of an imagination that
Snuck beneath a low cut blouse.
She couldn't make herself take in
The beauty of a man who picks his teeth
During supper or wears his socks to bed.
In a memory, she'd left a love
Made of summer skin and nothing more.
She had offered solace within
An undeveloped bust that slowly moved
To the swaying of lessons on human interaction.