The Naked One
While my love dies I live in a recovery home two streets down, behind the holly. Mornings I hover over his sleep, blue bedclothes he will slip beyond. I weave forget-me-nots in my hair and wear paper crowns. When he disappears I am the naked one. Evenings are spent in anonymous candlelit projects, church basements; after prayers the circle opens and I’m free to look through wardrobes and bureaus of old clothes. In the dusty light I dress in velvet, fox and rabbit. A game, I’m all made-up; at the funeral, prewar lace with satin bow below my heart.