Late Wife

By Abigail Warren

As we get ready to leave

I call out to the girls,

look, your father’s left a candle burning

on the windowsill

he must have forgotten to put it out.

Its pale glow flickers faintly in this early evening,

a votive offering to a spring sun

that still lights our day.


The youngest one, her eyes meet mine

she says nothing,

and for a moment we stare

until I remember

3 days alone

7 days imitating g-d

30 days no joys

one year, a candle in the window.


We walk out of the house

the candle still flickering in the darkening pane.


Abigail Warren lives in Northampton, Massachusetts and teaches at CambridgeCollege. Her work has appeared, or is forthcoming, in print and on-line, in Monarch Review, Duct, Pearl, Brink Magazine, Gemini Magazine, Into The Teeth of the Wind, Sanskrit, Emerson Review, Hawai’i Pacific Review, The Clarion, Bluestem, and Compass Rose.  She was a recipient of the Rosemary Thomas Poetry Prize.

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