The widow of twenty-four years,
only
forty-six and change
despite
a coffin holding up the stone,
wears
black robes and nunnery veils
as
she bakes bread and cakes--
pan dulce, magdalenas, galletas--
and
brings them to the market square.
She
is kind that way.
In
the evening, she sits at an outdoor café,
drinking
red wine and eating bread,
her
long black hair free of its shroud.
She
takes the worthy home to her room,
not
passing up lovers when lovers can be had.
To
do so would be a sin.
There
is ecstasy in the feathered bed
where
her husband planted his children
between
her slender rolling hips,
a
sacrament to honor the many gods
within
her all-embracing mind and soul.
Take
this Spanish wine and drink.
Such
is the taste of her sweet mourning
that
extends beyond the afternoon
and
is consummated in the holiest of nights.
Such
is love that never forgets
but
is not afraid of new and brighter lights.
~William Hammett
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