Susan Mahan




 

Widow’s Walk


The

air

is

so

rare,

I

can’t

catch

my

breath;

perched

upon

a

precipice,

I

hover

on

the

constant

verge

of

tears.

 



 

Desperate Times…
 

I stand above your grave and think

how cold your stilled heart must be:

so new is that idea.

For you were always warm…and funny.

I laugh less often, now alone.

 

My feet were always cold, you claimed.

I commandeered your slippers, socks,

your sure-fire heat on winter nights,

ignoring your kvetches that I asked too much of you.

I didn’t believe a word.

 

I assign your footwear to the night shift,

donning desolate moccasins

and employing errant argyles,

abandoned all day in your dresser.

 

And though I’m allergic

and somewhat afraid,

I crank up the furnace

and think about getting a dog.

 
 

 

Staving Off

Doubt punctures false hope, opening the floodgates.
 

I become cloud cover

on a turbulent day.

I adopt the blackest of moods,

a gnawing ache

in the pit of my stomach.

 

I can name the fear: 

I will be alone for the rest of my life.

 

I cannot stand the idea.






Copyright © Susan Mahan 2013

 
Susan Mahan has been writing poetry since her husband died in 1997. She is a frequent reader at poetry venues and has written four chap books. She joined the editorial staff of The South Boston Literary Gazette in 2002. She has been published in a number of journals and anthologies.