We the widows who clip our dreams
as we do fingernails,
cover our nakedness, tie needs
to war-riddled bed-rails
and wait for what cannot appear
are stating our own case
as women forgotten in war-greed.
Pleadings of passion soak our skin,
fire attacks crying bones,
desire writhes too much to admit
heat leaves us so cold
searing emptiness, not fitting
for bravery's widows
claims our grief, battles resistance.
We, wistful women, lost the Him
who mattered so wholly,
now as death laughs at our shivers
young flesh withers alone.
Why, tell us, does war not deliver
peace that keeps men at home
where love reproves without killing.
