WIDOW OF INDIA
When she came to her father,
her grief was full and round,
like a bowl in her hands.
“Now you are half-dead too,”
he told her,
for wives souls split
and half remains with the ashes and catacombs
descending or becoming ephemeral
with their husbands.
Wide eyes blink black and
Her fingers shred air
like separating threads
or the weave of a rug,
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