A Widow’s Cry

We picked her up from the airport.
The blue skies and candy clouds
mocked her. Fat had melted off
her body like ice cream at midday.
She looked lifeless. Dying to cave in.
Just drowning in those sad clothes.
Her walk was broken too as she approached
the herd of sombre, mourning women.
The casket followed.

I peeped through the petticoats
and zambias and as she collapsed
I heard it for the first time. That cry.
It was an uncomfortable cry,
like that of a suffering dog.
I forced my way through the crowd,
fell to the ground, gripped her hip
and held her tight. She searched deep
into my eyes. And with that moment came
silence.

We never spoke about it. But I think
she saw a little bit of him in my eyes.

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