Finalities

Polly Chase

We came; and helpless words were spoken.
So little of her was left,

We could not think of her as broken,
Or lonely, or bereft.
For when he died, such a thin shade
Of her stayed in the room
And talked to us, we felt afraid
In the close-shuttered gloom.
There would be no more quarrel with death
Between her and the grave.
Her spirit vanished with his breath.
We went. We called her brave.