THE WIDOW CONTRONTS SKUNKS IN THE MIDDLE OF THE NIGHT
With rain and November freeze, skunks have come
to the comfort of my home, torn the screen
from the crawl space and burrowed in for the long haul.
At first I think it is a prowler trying to break in,
or my husband, after all, I have just dreamed
returned from the other world as often wished.
I bolt from bed flashlight in hand,
fear exchanged for curiosity,
the stench of disgust for possibility of miracle.
In the dream I am not elated but unprepared,
in a dither to be exact, not expecting such a visit
in the middle of the night of my ongoing life,
not much saved but his wallet, all the credit cards
canceled. His old leather motorcycle jacket still hangs
in the closet, though, some chicken in the fridge.
Fully awake, I realize there is only the cat
with her disdainful gaze, the smell I will have to ignore
till morning, and the reminder of what is done, is done.
Next day Pest Control tells me for $400 they install
a one way gate for the skunks to exit, entrance impossible.
That and daily checking of activity will solve the problem.
If only it were that simple, no amount of money
capable of keeping grief at bay. I behold the gifts
of fall, all that gold and retreat of green, waft some sage
through the house to disguise the unwanted
and bless the spirits of those who used to live here
as they wander, checking on things the only way they can.
THE WIDOW RUBS UP AGAINST HER LIMITS
Suddenly they’re coming out of everywhere,
these coyote widowers, gaunt and lonely,
full of tricks to tease her to their side.
All they want is a friend who grasps absence,
they say, someone to chat with over grilled fish
and fettucini, and by the way
would she mind paying her half.
At first taken aback, she decides it’s safer.
Lays down her money at the movies, too,
feels free to pull her hand from theirs in the dark.
But when they come with roses, their favorite music
and leftover recipes, she gets resistant.
It’s too early, she says, looking at the full moon.
I don’t eat cake, she says to another.
Now they’re ready for the kill, slick back
their phantom hair and offer thrills
she can’t imagine even in her wildest dreams.
She reminds them of her limits, a hug
now and then, a tiny kiss. Not that she doesn’t long
for the curl of herself around another,
not that she doesn’t remember sweet abandon.
You need therapy, the disgruntled snap
with their scratch and strut. She prickles,
opens the door to the wide world with a good luck,
though other words lurk on the brim of her lips.
They yip down the path to their cars,
not feeling how she really does understand
what it is to be a half.
