The Grass Widow
THE GRASS WIDOW
All this cowed earth in a blue jar, flowerless
Stands on the pine table. Clay and wood
Have broken spirit’s voice, to endow
With uncalled for happiness your fleeting presence.
Truth is blunt in your eyes: you do not love me
Or what I seem to claim in you, parenthood and nation,
Lest I decipher too readily the code of your person
And trade it for the platitude of wealth
Joining you has become. You would rather
Speak of the turquoise found in a still cave
Than wear the married felicities of our age
Wafer thin as an advertisement page
Adorning the scattered newspaper. My hands
Touch your face. Nobody loves you like me.
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