African Widow

Her late husband, badly missing Possibly last week, still kissing On his account, all companies shunning, Their jokes she once loved, stunning. Her meals eating with unhygienic cutlery, Sometimes with none, as though lost to burglary. In the nearest cupboard imprisoning her body creams, Her emaciating body stirring no dreams. A switching over to cheap black earrings And necklaces like a dull rain cloud: A maintenance of voice without lively wings, No expression of her thoughts aloud. The bare earth for sitting her rump, An approaching centipede not likely to make her jump. Just the actions that onlookers assure She wasn't her spouse's murderers: Simply decisions that tighten the gossipy's jaw And prove her a simply unfortunate tigress. Incidentally, the prime suspect over her husband's demise, His Kins-folks asserting that it is no surmise: How she had his very last meals tampered with, Much attention to this drawing like a pith. Not though defenceless, The African Widow: With potent curses equipped besides Jesus' shadow And touching tears by the grave of her husband That don't fail to her adversaries crush an army band.