Photo Finish of the Reverend's Widow
poem and art by
Jennifer Jenkins
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She fades downstairs, a stale eclipse,
to bare another sun,
arouses aches from barren hips
that hold her robe undone.
One switch and light squints unexcused
from Sunday's morning heat
when God is settled and accused
of poaching at her feet.
She's 'ready set the cold dinette,
like every blast-full eve,
her Earl Gray-VO wedding set
that hungers still to grieve.
Verl radiates without a twitch
of cheek or harrowed heart,
hair slicked, grin clicked, ready to pitch;
a tattered fact of art.
Today she moans too far beneath
thin bones to spit her boil,
slow crooks her finger 'cross his teeth
where breath and beat uncoil.
One drink to stroke the last backlash
soon nullifies her spite.
There's no sharp shutter or last flash
to capture her fouled light.
Shattered glass on mosaic tile
sends streamlets free to rush
her cries curled loose in widow's bile
that only Verl could hush.
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