Young Widow

Young Widow

I sat myself firmly

at the steel, round-topped table

bolted to the floor we shared

once at Riverhead jail.

I chose the empty seat

directly opposite the bully on purpose

who proclaimed proudly that

My Mom can beat the crap

out of anybody! And by the looks

of the daughter I know this

must have been true. I stayed

friendly—poked fun at the inedible

food--for a moment we shared

a common enemy.

You were seated to my right,

to my left another of your jail-friends.

You spoke of your two daughters.

Not to me directly, their father

now dead, another heroin victim.

You would never inflict a stepfather

on them—your girls—Worse than a mother

in jail? I thought. My Higher Self,

sometime enemy, sometime friend

stepped in. Judge not lest ye be judged,

he said. Always a He, he is and

He is mine, not some hermaphroditic

nature god playing his flute

while civilizations burn but

definitely a He. I held my tongue.

If you only knew how
difficult for me.

Wanted to say I understood

more than you could possibly know—

maybe even more than you just yet.

I spoke softer than this angry place

we shared—touched your arm

and you let me—told you that you’d

love again. You just aren’t ready.

Someone who would be good to you

will be good to them. I hoped my words

pierced you black veil, even if for just

a moment--I chose one of my

very few lies carefully—

I have a good stepfather. I got up,
thanked you and your friends

for sharing a meal and their

table, took my tray to the trash

scraped it clean.