Upon the Death of My Wife

The two faced wind
that once carried seed
into a virgin land
giving form and child
to my woman’s hands,
now shakes her canes and bric-a-brac
in the corners of this tidal house.

In earlier days when death
was but a detail of creation
she stood before me modestly;
long-legged, slightly stooped
and self embraced to hide
the intricacies of her nakedness.

But tonight my woman
is but a scrap of
one night’s wonder,
her cleaving breath
incising my domestic acre
into widower and undertaker.

T. Baker