Secret Life Of My Widow Poem by David Kowalczyk

All Soul's Day.
November morn full of fog and the
anxious cries of starlings.
April March pouts out the streaked
kitchen window. Her eyes are black
and blue and biting, her lips cold
as a cobra's.


Her life, a carafe of soured Thunderbird,
a grotesque Fellini parody. Petty criminal
neighbors, ghoulish in-laws, a faceless
husban David. Necrophilia has never been
more inviting.


The smell of blood is in the morning air.
Her eyes gleam with meanace and disgust.
Her lips, all scabs and lies, wrinkle into
a demonic sneer. She imagines etching
an inscription onto David's tombstone:


'A life can be haunted
by what it never was.'