Widow
Janine Canan
Help me! her husband cries.
Then his heart stops.
Propped against her in the taxi
he doesn't speak, kiss, or lift
a finger to object.
The next day she goes out to pump water,
flailing her body up and down
until the entire weight of it aches;
at night under stars
gashes her leg against the rail.
The coffin
mounded with layers of earth,
bright stalks of tropical flowers,
submits to raising
and lowering.
She wakes in the dark,
picks up a mystery,
notices the banana trees,
rhododendrons, blackberries, lilies
engulfing the hollow house.
Look at the light on that tree, she exclaims.
Her new lover taps a cold finger on her knee.
She tugs down her skirt,
concentrating on something--
like a rainbow--faraway.
