The Widow I Know

wears long sleeves and sleeps

downstairs with the laundry,

stalls on the narrow

road near the hollow tree,

watches whitecaps

slap together from her window,

makes a cross on her body,

this fossil of a woman

sets and dries into the wall

like a clay eye, lid fallen.

Grandma, I ask, did you even

love him? Does it even

matter, she says,

slow as a cathedral echo.