- The Widow
- By Danielle B. Mires
She has the skin of an old woman
cold, dry, wrinkled
a map of peaks and valleys
no longer scented in mystery
no longer ripe for exploration.
Barren of resource, empty of life
she rocks and rocks and curdles slowly
twisting into a smaller, sadder shell
still crying pitifully for a gentle caress
a brush of love or a tender hand.
But like the drying desert wind no relief is found
the only touch she feels is time's cold clutch
tightening around her throat, crushing the brittle bones
until she slip, slip, slides away
like dry dust falling through my fingers.
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