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.
Copyright © Rosemarie Rowley | Year Posted 2015
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