It’s cold again, a crust
of frost swept across the deck
and the skin splitting at the sides
of my fingernails, like my mother
and grandmother. Small red
slashes like splinters no amount
of lotion can prevent. I live in solitary
as does my mother, almost ninety-eight,
as did her mother before. Our husbands
having taken their leave well ahead
of us. The name we’re given—widow—
like the black spider, like poison, like panic,
like the throttle wide open. Over the edge
we go. The life we knew a dream of the past.
And still the earth spins. The vessel
of the day begins empty then fills
with light. Memories huddle together.
Chores push the hands around
the clock. I drop sterile saline
into each eye. Blink. Ask
is it another dream? Casteneda
said look at your hands. I don’t
need to look. Lean into it, like the wind,
what you feel and can’t touch.
What is a dream anyway?
A time between? Something before?
Something after?