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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