The Widow's Rules

Until my fingers learn
The way your fingers taught me,
Fumbling, I find the keys, one
By one, by rote, by feel, by sheer
Neglect.

It is like learning a new
Language, a new way of thinking
How vowels and consonants
Console one another,
As if they could contain grief
By boxing it into tiny squares.

Not having your voice
But only my own to echo
Back, what words can I say
To ease the silence.
How to pronounce singular.

This is the widow's grief.
To know what can,
And cannot be done,
Which places are safe alone,
Which rooms must not be entered.

Copyright © 2002 Adrianne Marcus All rights reserved
from Poetry International
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission