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Widower

How acrid the word,

how sour the suffix—

that barrier,

two spaces on paper, an ocean in person,

between me and mourning.

Which smug sesquipedalian Oxbridge fuck

decided grief has a gender?

Was -er the best you could do?

How dare you—an acting suffix,

as if I wrought this on myself,

as if all the things I could have done

don't bay for me in the night like hounds.

But enough about me,

too much about me—

and certainly more than enough about Oxbridge.

My love,

this veil of verbiage

only pushes us farther apart.

I know not what you think of the word 'widow.'

Many years will pass

before I may again see you

smirk at my rebellion

or scoff at my pedantry.

But whatever it evokes—

the venomous spider,

the living war casualty,

the matron in black,

the suspect in a fabulous coat—

I will bear it all, I will,

just to be

two

spaces

closer to you.

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