Widow’s Wish
Sitting in a pink slip on a windowsill, a widow, with flowing dark hair and slim grins,
looks at sashaying fishtails and blush lips of local party girls.
Night winds bring aromas of body and bloom.
Fabric in spring colors, daring cuts and dirty trims flag many a passing dandy in Day-Glo and tight pants.
Music as wings wrap around this widow in a window, smoking a fag and waxing past a full moon flash.
Run on and on and wait for suns and stars to shift in orbit.
Our widow fading fast finds liquor lifting sliding focus.
Wish upon a star and a moon may concur.
Laughing lady, pink and pasty, in post sultry glory and worth.
Distinction without joy, without stopping at anything but honor, is a poignant proposition.
Honor thy lord and lady, honor a sky of hardy, but do not honor a monarch past pardon.
Our widow grins sadly in a dark window.
Drift in moonlight, night stars floating on boats of papyrus and flax.
Hyacinths and Gladiolas hang blossoms low and lazy.
Owls and sparrows chat with bugs in bright bombs of liquid and poison.
Rumors on lips and in mouths of animals fix arrows on widow’s windows.
Matriarchal Mab is all sickly with charm of said widow, suspicious of pink plump limbs and small nothings.
Find touching instants in this widow, thinks Mab.
Cats lick paws and pay nods to Mab, still watching our widow.
Dogs bark at moons and stars on this lady’s skin.
Macho muchacho and dandy vainglory slip glimpsing drippy lusts along this widow’s chilling dips.
Vanilla is mountains and fruity is tiptops and lady guards all in sad wild comfort.
On backs of lions with gold loins this widow climbs to vistas solo.
Man on a path packing a pistol full of juicy proof cannot sway this lady to do or no.
Wish our lady windows with no curtains or blinds.
Wish no grudging body plant unhappy thoughts, hiding around a crack in a short door.
Wish a mar with billows of spraying surf and skiff with sails of silk and string,
for our lady to lay and drift in napping hours.
Wish a song of an Atlantic fairy humming soft in our lady’s tranquility.
Lullaby and story dancing in mists and fog.
Can our lady show us crying or smiling, or nothing but a wish to do so?
Our lady taking drinks and hits of smoky comfort, sighs at any cold building in sight.
Nothing but past, our widow thinks on things as vision blurs in painful thoughts of days long quit.
Sobbing, still mourning arbor days hot with passion, this lady slips back into dark shadows,
and black night bids final parting.
Summer 1998
