The widow reached into her chest
then lost her appetite to stay
with usual norms that told the rest
to eat until you went away.
Her fingers bled while tracing through
its winding, twisting, twisted roots
that spoke of shatters, holes and tatters,
seats that toppled like waste matter.
Hers was humming still, and streaked
with pocks that glistened like a stream
whereon the lamplit morning breathed
and led the way to later dreams.
This is a poignant and sophisticated exploration of loss and endurance. The way you balance raw, tactile pain with moments of quiet luminosity makes the poem linger in the mind. It invites the reader to sit with the widow in her sorrow but also to recognize the life that still hums beneath it.