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.
But, she knows that she feels cold.
**A nod to my heritage, from Polish poet Anna Swirszczynska’s “She Does Not Remember”.
