Susan Butler
These are the hands of a widow,
seeking comfort in pockets and pages,
flapping at hollow questions,
a slight frantic bird trapped in a tangled snare.
These are the hands of a widow, ineffectual,
lurching, grasping at what they can never repair,
growing frailer, even bones
vanishing.
These are the eyes of a widow,
eyes that don’t see but will never stop seeing,
dead stars that still must wake the day.
These are the eyes of a widow,
burnt crumbs
that still must burn, must disguise,
though poorly,
this aching vacancy.
This is the mouth of a widow
…
This is the face of a widow,
a stain of weeping salt, skin brittle,
this half moon
cradled in no other hands.
This is the face of a widow,
attention turned up to barren sky
instead of down at the earth, the dirt
that covers him,
that will cover her.
This is the word widow.
It means all that will never be.
***
Susan Butler is a British-Polish artist and writer. First a graphic designer who ran her own design studio, Susan then spent her life traveling the world. After settling in Germany for a decade, Susan moved to the US to study world cultures and languages. Her work as a poet and artist reflects her exploration of the interactions between the psyche, nature and the metaphysical, her fascination with universal human connection, and delves into the psychological effects of abuse and grief. Susan writes fiction and poetry in French, English and Arabic. A small sample of her work can be found on her website www.ouisuzette.com and she is @ouisuzette on social media.