Widow’s Walk
The cliff.
The rocks and waves below.
Off the widow's walk you, widow, still
walk at dawn, near noon, at Venus's first showing,
in heat, in chill, in rain, rain, rain ripping wind rain
Your children know not where you go
know not any hidden intent,
so long as they're fed, cooed, hummed to.
The call.
That blackest sea.
Look, look again, look out on horizon bright.
Ships pass, none, none with your husband's flag.
Look, look still, down to those waves, those rocks.
Hear a call?
The cliff's call for you to leap?
It mocks!
Water's cold call, drown down drown
as your husband has.
Your children call, turn to fetch them, hold them down, drown.
They call.
Papa...
...he is...
... home?
Shut
In the nursing home hallway
she sits, eyes
shut too tight
to really be asleep;
tall with a slim grace
almost gone.
There is so much astir around her,
and she doesn't decrease it any,
even as she sits soundless,
sleepless eyes
shut so tight.
What nightmare lives
in that tornado alley mind
that could scare her so
and keep her awake,
shut her apart
from us?
Even if I asked,
she couldn't tell me.
So the world moves and passes.
Aides speak to her,
but she won't answer back,
just nonsense whispers
as her lips go slack.
And when she finally opens
those eyes they shine,
they shine like a sky cold
enough to form frost, vast
enough to lose a man, turbulent
enough to scare away any
nightmare.
Michael Griffith began writing poetry to help his mind and spirit heal as his body recovered from a life-changing injury. Recent work appears online and in print in such outlets as The Blue Nib, Nostalgia Digest, NY Literary Magazine, and Poetry24. He resides near Princeton, NJ.
Widow’s Walk
The cliff.
The rocks and waves below.
Off the widow's walk you, widow, still
walk at dawn, near noon, at Venus's first showing,
in heat, in chill, in rain, rain, rain ripping wind rain
Your children know not where you go
know not any hidden intent,
so long as they're fed, cooed, hummed to.
The call.
That blackest sea.
Look, look again, look out on horizon bright.
Ships pass, none, none with your husband's flag.
Look, look still, down to those waves, those rocks.
Hear a call?
The cliff's call for you to leap?
It mocks!
Water's cold call, drown down drown
as your husband has.
Your children call, turn to fetch them, hold them down, drown.
They call.
Papa...
...he is...
... home?
Shut
In the nursing home hallway
she sits, eyes
shut too tight
to really be asleep;
tall with a slim grace
almost gone.
There is so much astir around her,
and she doesn't decrease it any,
even as she sits soundless,
sleepless eyes
shut so tight.
What nightmare lives
in that tornado alley mind
that could scare her so
and keep her awake,
shut her apart
from us?
Even if I asked,
she couldn't tell me.
So the world moves and passes.
Aides speak to her,
but she won't answer back,
just nonsense whispers
as her lips go slack.
And when she finally opens
those eyes they shine,
they shine like a sky cold
enough to form frost, vast
enough to lose a man, turbulent
enough to scare away any
nightmare.
Michael Griffith began writing poetry to help his mind and spirit heal as his body recovered from a life-changing injury. Recent work appears online and in print in such outlets as The Blue Nib, Nostalgia Digest, NY Literary Magazine, and Poetry24. He resides near Princeton, NJ.
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