Portrait of a Widowed Poet

For this photo

you slide left hand 

around left cheek

incline head

so that hand

appears to be preventing head

from floating off -

restrained, contained:

hand sculpts face

with things once felt

distant memories

childhood toothache.

Contrived thus, at dead centre of frame,

your wedding band sings below its knuckle

to show that you are buckled up tight

against others’ eyes.

But he who slid gold

onto your burning finger has dropped

and is buried now

under some slab of Wales

which may explain the delicate shade of grey

your eyes reflect.

What wild Welsh walks

were taken by you two

after sleepy morning sex?

His gentle genitals fit so snug.

You slipped like rain around each other’s necks;

fed one upon the other’s subtle breath;

raked nails on backs;

tattooed your bloody yearnings

into each other’s skins;

kept each other’s words

as earrings.

But against this solid, black ground -

your parked left elbow

pinning down

some imaginary table

out of frame -

you lean gamely forward,

and are snapped

never to truly breathe again.