Saturday, October 16, 2010


A shawl; a shroud.
Crocheted in hues
of black and crimson yarns,
the winsome tatter across her shoulders.
A gift perhaps,
or a remnant left at her disposal.
No offer or proposal, just a spinster maybe,
or a not-so-gay divorcee. She wouldn’t say.
Her silence is her voice; her stare, vacant and dead.
Around her head, a babushka cinched tightly
beneath her chin, a lofty noose without a victim.
The window opens the world to her disinterest,
at best, she has random flashes of its existence.
She clutches the cozy covering closer to her,
a sanctuary of sort. A harbored port
in this station of her life. Once someone’s wife
she remembers. Or she doesn’t. It matters not.
People did not find their comfort in her company.
Hers was offered in chastisement and vitriol.
This decrepit soul lost in the warmth of her frigidity.
It’s a pity. She does not remember that she was evil.
But, she knows that she feels cold.

**A nod to my heritage, from Polish poet Anna Swirszczynska’s “She Does Not Remember”.


  1. What a sad person, and a moving poem. You have written it beautifully. I would like to know more about your inspiration poem, presumably in Polish?

  2. This line speaks to me, especially...

    >>>>Her silence is her voice

    My Gongs, in progress.

  3. Oh, the ending is so powerful! I like the various descriptions of the shawl and headscarf as noose, shroud, sanctuary, port.

  4. i like: "she remembers. or she doesn't ..."

  5. That final line ties it up beautifully. I've been trying to do something on the nature of evil, with no luck. This is giving me an inkling