Poetry

The Widow’s Cloud; The Shadowlet


The Widow’s Cloud

 

The widow’s cloud: it’s too high to be seen
by others—a wisp so siriusly high
it casts the palest, the smallest, the greenest
blue-gray-violet shadowlet on me wherever I
walk, limp, stroll, even to the bakery
where I burst into tears over a . . .
. . . a chocolate cupcake with sprinkles.
 
You had the palate of a little boy
and the carbohydrate capacity
to absorb an inch-thick layer of cocoa
with piggy pink and laser lemon dimples.
In this glass case I know which chocolate toy
you’d choose. I knew you. And I continue
to . . .
That’s the shadowlet:
it’s knowing.
(It’s you.)

 

The Shadowlet

 

The shadowlet is knowing you without
the you you were. The knowing itself is
the palest scrim through which I see the world.
It doesn’t dim the world—it just renames
all the tones, hues, values, but slightly—no doubt
that the colors are what they were—the is
of recognition of what was is whorled
inside each perception . . . Online I learned
“retired” colors get new Crayola names.
Maize departed, and magic mint, teal blue and
mulberry. Burnt sienna was saved. Blue gray
went. And raw umber. The widow’s colors
got “retired.” Well, I’m their living dolor, darling.
“Raw” and “magic” behind the scrim. Her and him.