War Widow

Chris Abani

The telephone never rings. Still

you pick it up, smile into the static,

the breath of those you’ve loved; long dead.

The leaf you pick from the fall

rises and dips away with every ridge.

Fingers stiff from time, you trace.

Staring off into a distance limned

by cataracts and other collected debris,

you have forgotten none of the long-ago joy

of an ice-cream truck and its summer song.

Between the paving stones;

between tea, a cup, and the sound

of you pouring;

between the time you woke that morning

and the time when the letter came,

a tired sorrow: like an old flagellant

able only to tease with a weak sting.

Riding the elevator all day,

floor after floor after floor,

each stop some small victory whittled

from the hard stone of death, you smile.

They used to write epics about moments like this.