1789: The Brand New Widow

The April morning, when astray, fog roams,
And each ember exhales its whim of smoke,
And the widow, so brand, so new, so slow,
Entreats the kitchen with food for thought;
How he'd loved her once;
His palms, her breasts, the strokes
Reviving, and fading; revealing, and keeping
Back; and unfolding, distance memories, but
Close to the kitchen and close to her—his still grave.

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