The Grass Widow

THE GRASS WIDOW All this cowed earth in a blue jar, flowerless Stands on the pine table. Clay and wood Have broken spirit’s voice, to endow With uncalled for happiness your fleeting presence. Truth is blunt in your eyes: you do not love me Or what I seem to claim in you, parenthood and nation, Lest I decipher too readily the code of your person And trade it for the platitude of wealth Joining you has become. You would rather Speak of the turquoise found in a still cave Than wear the married felicities of our age Wafer thin as an advertisement page Adorning the scattered newspaper. My hands Touch your face. Nobody loves you like me.