Below skin-deep in the steadiness of organs,
in the upright bones, where all the solid, perfect cells tick on,
the widowís heart, that little zip lock of gore, fills
regular as a metronome, only a wisp of memory stirs.
Nothing moves her but her chestnut hair, her own pale
She hums; she ignores the darkness somewhere east
of the lace that disappears between her thighs, attends
only to the mirror
and itís flattery, staying alert for signs of that other,
too-fragile face. Her husband sometimes complained
of loneliness and fear, as if she could cure him. For him, she puts
ugly clothes that suggest loss. For her reflection,
satin. She hardly thinks of the stepdaughter growing up next door.
At the wake, she claims to be stricken. But she canít
the fairy taleóevil step-ways, an autumn forest, first the woodsman,
then the disguise are caught in that same glass where
an apple cheek, the satin skin, a flat black empty eye.