IN THE AFTERMATH OF LOVE

I admire men who lose their wives
without apparent grief. Hardly an hour
passes, before another bauble
dangles from the skipping wrist; and I
admire wives who digest lost love
without apparent sorrow. I also welcome
their tutorials, for my husband’s
loss has brought me such pain, I find it
hard to love again. At each clumsy
step I stumble, bumbling into other
lovers in their secret harbors, busily
rubbing love’s rough cheeks red. Oh, Eros,
take out this arrow, or hurl another
better, that I might live again.