The hand that tries
keeping the other hand
with its watch that stops
ticking with any mention
of her husband just dead
from shaking so much

and the belch that she relishes
as she once did her breath
and the noise her nose made as she
smelled the scent left by him
for suggesting that her body
still goes about its business

and the hair she has kerchiefed
that he once had remarked
was as dark as the night
when viewed from the heavens
has grown so dismissive of light
would he know it to touch

and the throat she tries clearing
even though she can make out
the sound she let slip as she first
let him place his lips on her own
of this voice she’d rehearsed
for the endless line of mourners

and the legs she now crosses
before uncrossing yet again
as the words she once spoke to him
are shown up by the complaints of her bones
wondering not only how is it they will wake
but how is it they’ll know and be known by