Widow

I wanted to believe that the dead stay dead;
I’d gone through all the effort of loosing,
I didn’t want to wake to find
The same old fingerprints smudging
The view out the bedroom window.

I wiped the counters down with wide circles;
I took a box of empty jars, clanking, to the basement
To hold the dark there, instead of the dust
In the kitchen, which gathered again and again
Like the aftermath of layered cakes,
Years ago cooked and ceremoniously eaten.

I thought if I left the window open,
You wouldn’t smudge it going.
The curtain waved as I drifted in bed.
Your hand, always returned
To wave, again, goodbye.

I closed the window, opening the doors instead.
The jars in the basement wailed
In voice a bit like singing.
I stood looking down into the blurry back yard
With the great elm and its great arms,
Always beckoning, as if I were welcome.
I forget these days to mention,
The streaks between envious fingerprints
Wishing on the glass to join the wind.