Tipton Poetry Journal – Spring 2022
The Widower’s Wife Ellen Skilton I will be somebody’s mother somehow, I said, a jagged, gorgeous prophecy. Another woman whose name I know had to give birth, relinquish, smother her feelings so I could mother. And now as the widower’s wife, I devour a reprise of that same tart/sweet taste — a rhubarb pie of uneasy delight. I find I have endless room for dessert but my husband can still taste bitter chemo herbs on his tongue — that aftertaste laces our kisses, transforming to a tender tartness I know so well. Another woman whose name I know had to suffer, cease, become unmated so I could be fully sated. And I wonder — when hawk families sit down to dinner after a long day at the office, do they think about who died so they could end up so full, not an ounce of room for dessert. The mother hawk does that thinking while the children just ask for seconds. She knows the horror of roadkill she’s turned into a family feast and yet she savors seconds too. Her kettle of eyas with voices overlapping huddle in a cozy temporal sweetness that she’ll long for again later in her arthritic wings — hungering for more.
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